Stronger
by Provocative Envy
Summary: COMPLETE: My whole life had been leading up to this moment, this second of tragedy. I couldn't imagine anything less of a disaster, less of a letdown. There was nothing anticlimactic about the wrenching of my gut, the roaring of my blood. HG/DM.
1. I

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Okay. So it's been awhile since I've written anything. That has a lot to do with my complete lack of inspiration in the past few weeks. Which is the real reason I ditched that other story, _A Long Fall to Perfect_. But this one is very different. Mainly because _I have thought of an actual plot_. I never plan things out, which is how I like to write; but this will be longer, more poetic, and certainly surprising. I already know how I want it to end: this is a good thing. So don't be alarmed by anything that's described in the first few installments of this. I think it would be anticlimactic to have him understand the world and all its painful ramifications in the first few sentences. And yes, this is a Draco/Hermione fic.

OOO

**CHAPTER ONE**

Her face was blindingly beautiful in the violet mist that enshrouded the Quidditch pitch at dawn; the pale milky glow of her skin was an ethereal backdrop for the sky blue majesty of her eyes. Her laugh held a scintillating tinge of seduction: the butterfly kisses I dropped across her face were tantalizingly breathtaking.

The effervescence of her teasing smile was almost heartbreaking in its innocence. Her hand was fluttering close by my neck, her fingernail catching on a loose thread of my sweater. Her lips were lusciously swollen, resembling nothing so much as red satin pillows; I captured them one last time in a caress born of desperate impatience.

She sighed into my mouth, relaxing her shoulders and allowing the cool fall breeze to wreak havoc with the thin sheet of blonde hair that was spread across the grass. I released her from my grasp, taking hold of her elbow as I heaved us to our feet.

"Haven't you ever stopped to wonder how incredibly amazing it is that we can stand on our feet?"

Her voice, peppered with wonderment, broke through the idyllic reverie I'd lapsed into.

"What?" I asked, bewildered by her seemingly pointless question.

"Our feet. They're so pathetically _small_ compared to the rest of us. Yet they hold us up, keep us on the ground, take us from place to place. Don't you find that the least bit odd?"

I gazed down at her, willing my pragmatism to abandon me for just a moment. She'd always been whimsical, her sense of romance and fantasy an underwhelming competition for the blatant insecurities she showed to everyone but me. I was used to those dreamy inquiries, used to the slow blinking that accompanied them.

"I suppose so," I replied vaguely, unwilling to engage in a discussion of philosophical proportions.

"Oh, Draco," she murmured, taking a step forward. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

"Nothing," I whispered simply. "Just love me."

She didn't respond, didn't even look up at me. All she did was press her head into my chest, heaving a breath and savoring my scent.

"We need to get back," she finally mumbled, backing away and turning around.

I didn't bother pushing her blatant disregard for my declaration: I was excruciatingly accustomed to it. Every day, it seemed, I would get more and more restless when it came to her noncommittal answers; her avoidance stemmed from a subconscious need for independence, I was sure.

She was the clingy type, always reluctant to leave my side and brave the hallways alone. She laughed at my jokes, put up with my sullen, angry moods, and was loyal to the point of obsession. Her codependency would have been pitiful had it been directed at anyone but me: I was so patently confident in my own supremacy that I viewed the kind of subservience she exhibited as nothing but my due.

Yet even I, in all my arrogant splendor, recognized that she had a tendency to be both calculating and distant; affection, despite her generous offering of it, wasn't something she was comfortable with. The fact that I continued, night after night, to express my love for her, was proof of my devotion: I was impatient and dreadfully selfish, and her reluctance to proclaim that she felt anything for me served only to whet my appetite even further.

So strong was my craving to hear those three tiny words from her, so debilitating was her rejection, that I often wondered if that was the source of my fondness for her. I'd never been deprived anything as a child, never wanted something that couldn't be bought. The fact that she was denying me my greatest wish didn't escape my interest: after a particularly unpleasant day, I would cruelly suspect of her the coerciveness necessary to affect my lucidity.

But at the same time, I genuinely believed she cared for me. I knew from experience that it was impossible to fake a soft expression, a barely noticeable warmth in the tone of voice, or a burning touch that seared through the skin.

And as we trudged silently back to our dormitories, I began, once more, to ponder how I'd gotten thrown into this pit of passionate yearning.

I remembered so clearly how it had been before: she had been chasing me, hanging onto my every word, hoping that I would deign to give her just a bit more attention that I had the previous day. I'd continued to ignore her until our sixth year; then, she'd made an ingenious move in her pursuit of me.

I had begun to consider her presence to be a prerequisite to my daily life: I would get up, go to breakfast, and consistently pay no heed whatsoever to her.

But then one morning, she'd disappeared. I'd feigned disinterest as to her whereabouts, pretending that it mattered little to me where she was. Yet at the end of that day, I'd realized an important truth: I had _missed_ her.

It had taken awhile for this to sink in, since the concept had seemed ludicrous at the time. She had no purpose other than that of unwanted lackey; that I could be anything but disdainful of someone that mindless had baffled me.

I'd accepted the quickening of my pulse and the tingling in my stomach, the uncharacteristic compassion and the remarkable selflessness. I'd finally acknowledged my fate and explained her change in status to her.

A week later, I'd fallen so hard and so fast that I was dizzy with suppressed emotion. And from then on, she'd held an inexpressible power over me.

As my head hit my pillow for the blessed two hours of sleep I'd get that night, a smile graced my features. Pansy Parkinson actually had one over on me.

The idea was almost as ridiculous as being in love with her was.

But only almost.

OOO


	2. II

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWO**

I watched as she threw her head back and laughed, the throaty chuckle carrying all the way over to my table. Her friends were clutching their sides, gasping for air as they attempted to go on with their meal.

I hated that they could be so effortlessly happy; I hated that they could waltz around and pretend they didn't know they were envied; I hated the way they walked, the way they talked.

But mostly, I hated their _perfection_.

It was as if I was the classic, stereotypical bully, destined to be the fulfiller of tragedies while they sailed into the sunset, giggling and triumphant. They came out victorious in literally everything they did: Weasley was the glorious sidekick, his antics providing the comic relief and ensuring his survival; Granger was the genius, adept at being smarter than everyone else and being unafraid to flaunt it; and Potter was the nauseatingly brave, emotionally scarred hero, his stupid glasses and his penchant for stultifying spontaneity earning him the reverence of an entire _society_.

They were classic models of the various stages of adolescent maturity, their normalcy doing nothing but enhance their sickly sweet images.

Pansy had never fully understood the extent of my detestation; she disliked the three of them, but in the cold, impersonal way that the average Slytherin hates the average Gryffindor. She resented the publicity they were rewarded with, but only out of dispassionate envy.

My abhorrence went beyond mere formalities.

It consumed me, tore apart any semblance of sanity I may have possessed; it was into the realm of unhealthy extremities, far past the voracious jealousy that had spurred it to begin with. I wanted each and every one of them to know the humility that had been heaped upon me, to feel with every fiber of their being the degradation I'd endured. I wanted them to torture themselves with unattainable goals, tease themselves with impossible revenge.

I wanted them, for just a second, to be me; I was in love and unsatisfied. I woke up every morning to real life, and nothing was more painful.

Or more beautiful.

My nights were spent in a curious sort of Hell, the pleasure of it all coming up short against the pure agony that was her silence; my days were spent choking back my rage, forcing down the wild abandon that I wanted to succumb to.

I had no release for the frenzy of unpleasantness that I was trapped in. I had no one to save me from myself, no one to pick me up after the fall.

But they, _they_, had everyone and anyone. _They_ weren't stuck in an irreversible web of treachery they couldn't untangle themselves from.

_They_ weren't too weak to bother trying.

I turned my attention to Pansy, allowing her senseless chatter to permeate my thoughts with its impervious neutrality.

"I'm going to get my Charms book, alright?" I finally interjected, waving to Crabbe and Goyle that I would be fine by myself. I sighed as I crossed the Great Hall, plastering a mask of pinched superiority across my face. When I reached the corridor, I noticed with distaste that the three people who plagued me incessantly were standing in a circle and continuing their witty banter.

"No, so she looks at me, with those _massive_ eyes, and sort of blinks – oh, come off it, you know what I mean, that whole creepy 'Stare of the Seer' thing – and then she says the _best_ one _yet_," Potter was practically gushing, his own laughter inaudible next to that of this companions.

"Well isn't this a heartwarming picture," I drawled, crossing my arms over my chest and smirking.

"How odd," Granger mused. "I could have sworn I'd heard something. Must've just been a nightmare."

"What's a _nightmare_ is that they've allowed people like _you_ to _stay_ in this school," I said shortly, aching to pick a fight.

"Oh, you mean those of us who actually know what we're doing?" she asked lightly, her jaw set angrily.

"No. I mean those of you who _don't belong here_," I responded, reaching into my robes for my wand as Potter and Weasley glared menacingly and did the same.

"Harry, don't be stupid," I heard her plead with the raven-haired superman.

"He's going to pay for every little thing he's ever said to you," he told her, taking a step forward.

"We're not doing _this_ again, are we?" I inquired, feigning boredom.

"No, this time we're going to finish it," Potter answered harshly, pointing his wand at my chest.

Wordlessly, I backed up, taking a dueling stance and waiting for him to make a move. Instantaneously, a flash of light was shot at me; I swerved out of the way just in time. Furiously, I muttered a curse under my breath and aimed it at Potter.

As if in slow motion, I saw him duck, saw the horrorstricken expression on Granger's face as she realized too late what was about to happen. Her shriek of surprise was cut off by the force of the spell that hit her: she flew backwards, her body slamming against the wall behind her with a crunch that made us all wince.

There was abrupt silence in the narrow hallway, broken only by the sound of my laughter.

"Potter," I gasped, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes, "that was _classic_. The irony _kills_ me. You took up a duel to fight for her honor and probably got her slaughtered in the process. Must say you're really very _excellent_ at protecting people."

Much to my consternation, the two boys were ignoring me; they had immediately raced to the girl's side, looking worried. Weasley scooped her up in his arms and mumbled something to Potter; a second later, the redhead was racing in the opposite direction, undoubtedly headed for the hospital wing.

Potter didn't follow for a moment, allowing his gaze to wander over to me, that shrewd grimace taking in my amusement. With a snort of contempt, he turned on his heel and ran after Weasley.

I traipsed contentedly to my dormitory, collecting my book and thinking I'd find Pansy and tell her about my accidental prevalence. On my way back to the Great Hall, a weak shout drew my attention to a small figure slumped on the floor, moaning.

Curious, I approached the boy and flipped him over, noticing the dark purple bruises littered across his cheeks and the sorry state of his robes. Clearly, someone had beaten him to within an inch of his life.

"Do you need some help?" I questioned him cruelly, perversely enjoying my brief few minutes of power.

He groaned, opening his swollen eyes and regarding me unsteadily. With some effort, he nodded and fell back down.

"How unfortunate that I'm the one to find you, then," I replied, dropping him and kicking him to the side.

I whistled all the way back to lunch.

OOO


	3. III

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THREE**

"…and my father told him that by Christmas I wouldn't even be bothering with school!" I finished, smiling in contentment as my two companions chortled unintelligently.

"So you're getting it at Christmas, Draco?" Vincent Crabbe asked me in a stage whisper, glancing around as if he had just divulged a secret of catastrophic proportions.

"Well, yes. That's what Father said. Personally, I think I could have handled it _years_ ago," I answered, inspecting my fingernails and rolling my eyes. "But you know Father. Always so irritatingly protective."

Crabbe and Goyle nodded dumbly, awed by my command of the conversation.

It was so clichéd: their constant inability to do anything but follow my example. It all really went back to my reputation of antagonism; what kind of villain would I be without my faithful and rudely moronic sidekicks?

I never pretended to be a good person. I knew what morals were, even if I personally didn't possess them. Those with sentimental streaks could insist I was a product of my environment as much as they liked, but I suppose I would have turned out to be petty and inexcusably bitter no matter the circumstances. I'd grown up with unpopular ideals, my opinions and those of my family being considered contraband in a gradually weakening world.

I held those beliefs staunchly, thinking it my only strength in a torrent of wretched failure. I was base and inconsiderate and terribly jealous by nature. But in the midst of all that, I had something that few could attest to: I deeply and truly had a cause that I would stand by, would _fight_ for. Yes, I had to hide behind a flimsy façade of indifference while still in school, but once we won, once we'd gotten rid of those with unacceptable lineage, I'd be free of the self-imposed cowardice.

And the symbol of equality for me, of freedom, of _power_, was the two square inches of pale flesh I'd give up. Once I was branded the supposed traitor of mankind, there was no turning back.

I loved the finality of it, the concept of complete fidelity and eventual fatality. I couldn't make any more mistakes once I'd surrendered my soul, I couldn't ever be thought of as a chink in the great Malfoy chain. I would have Pansy and my vendetta against Potter; I would have everything and nothing, all my dreams and my nightmares coming to life in a single promise of allegiance.

Frowning slightly, I bade my farewells to Crabbe and Goyle, heading out to the quidditch pitch for another dosage of my pretty poison: as usual, I was hoping that tonight she'd relinquish that overused and overrated saying.

As usual, I didn't even care if she meant it.

OOO

Pansy and I were walking back to the dungeons when we passed the hospital wing. I stopped walking very suddenly, causing her to run into me and mutter a curse under her breath. Impatiently opening her mouth to demand I continue, she froze as she noticed what I was staring at.

Granger, ghostly pale and scarily still, was lying on her back, her hands at her side and the sheets pulled up to her waist. Her hair, that annoyingly lackluster shade of brown, was framing her face and accentuating her pasty complexion. Her lips, open and an unusual shade of rosy pink, were dry and cracking. Her eyelids were dark and her cheeks were smoothly sunken in; her collarbone was clearly visible through the small opening of her nightgown and her shoulders looked thin and unnaturally angular.

In a second, I realized why her appearance had struck me so harshly: she was, in that minute fragment of time, the embodiment of my defections. The corpse she'd been reduced to was stagnantly articulate in all its unhealthy grandeur. I felt the faintest glimmer of a smile touch my mouth, my palm flat against the frame of the open doorway.

"Draco?" Pansy said, gently reaching out to touch my back.

"Look at her," I replied in amazement. "Look at how utterly defenseless she is. I've never seen her like that. I've never seen _anyone_ like that."

She didn't bother responding, her sigh an illustration of her annoyance. Dutifully, she leaned against a wall and waited for me to return to the land of the lucid.

"Just think how absolutely vulnerable she is. Unmoving and silent and incapable of fighting back. It's so…" I trailed off, my expression unreadable.

"So _what_, Draco? So _what_?" she urged me to go on, her voice tinged with surprise.

"So…_perfect_," I whispered, finally tearing my gaze from Granger and blinking.

Pansy was inscrutably studying me, her eyebrows furrowed.

"I mean, Pansy, _I_ did that. _I did that_," I repeated, begging her to understand.

Wordlessly, she turned away from me and began quickly walking in the direction of the dungeons.

Technically, the evening had ended much like every other one had. The only difference was that I didn't follow her that time.

I didn't think I ever would again.

OOO

"So, Potter, where's your filthy little mudblood friend?" I heard Crabbe and Goyle chortle idiotically at my innocent inquiry, my satisfaction increasing as I noticed a muscle twitch in Potter's jaw.

"None of your business, Malfoy, that's where," Weasley interjected heatedly, balling his hands into fists and regarding me furiously.

"Weasley, as clever as your muggle-loving retorts are, I really wasn't asking you," I shot back coolly, my eyes glued to Potter's.

"I think you already know where she is," he said tightly.

"Well in that case let's just pretend I'm as stupid as you and the Weasel and hear you say it out loud."

"Sod off, Malfoy! If you come anywhere near her once she gets out--" Weasley yelled, his ears a bright red.

"Gets out of _where_, Weasley?" I returned mildly, smirking.

But the two were already stalking away from me.

"Oh, and Potter?" I called out jovially. He didn't stop and didn't turn. "Give my regards to Pomfrey, will you?"

His stride broke slightly as my comment sailed through the air.

I laughed and thought of Granger, lying in the hospital wing, Potter and Weasley so easy to rile up without her and her rationale.

I had the wild notion that maybe, just maybe, she could stay there: incarcerated and at my mercy.

OOO


	4. IV

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**_xx Kyani_**: Okay. When he expressed his desire to keep her at her mercy he meant it more in a metaphorical sense. (I love how I talk as if they're real people.) As he's casually mentioned several times, _she_ isn't really the source of his anger: it's Harry. This is how I feel the whole scenario is described in the books, so that's how I want to portray it here. Also, it seems relevant to admit that I've _always_ been fascinated by the possibilities a second-rate character like Pansy represents. In the books, there is no exploration of her personality, and it's considered unimportant. She is the stereotypical bully's sidekick/groupie/girlfriend, and that's all very wonderful, but she's still technically a _person_. If that logic applies to Draco in all these Draco/Hermione fics, than it's only reasonable that it can apply to her as well. But to answer you a little more clearly, her lack of petulance in this last chapter had less to do with her character and more to do with the fact that it was unnecessary and unwarranted. Perhaps I wrote the scene poorly, but he wasn't staring at Hermione with anything even remotely resembling _lust_: he was seeing _himself_ in her, his own flaws magnified a thousand times over in her weakened state. And if you read Pansy's part closely, you'll see the premonition in how she reacted. I hope this wasn't too long and dreadfully boring, but I felt compelled to explain myself. Thanks for reviewing, though.

**Author's Note**: Apparently I'm a great deal better at describing illness than I thought. _No_, she isn't dying of some obscure disease; ostensibly, he was firing a curse that would render _Harry_ unconscious and weak and that kind of thing. But really, that isn't the point. I may have done a shoddy job of it, but there was a deeper meaning to that chapter; then again, it's entirely possible that meaning won't become clear until other things happen.

OOO

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Granger was released from the care of Madame Pomfrey a mere week after her initial confinement. By that point, Halloween had passed and the first strains of winter were blistering their way through thick wool sweaters: I ached for the crispy white flakes to fall from the sky and announce the coming of the holidays.

Christmas was a beautiful burst of light in the darkness of the school year monotony. No one, not even my father, not even Pansy, could have ever begun to imagine what it meant to me. I couldn't wait for the searing burn of the curse, for the incredible sense of power that would saturate every last inch of my body; my dreams, for so long filled with images of Pansy, were suddenly pervaded with the precious few glimpses I'd gotten of my father's Mark.

Yet a constant, niggling fear was always lurking in the shadows of my secret Heaven: I was worried that the flaws I'd been burdened with would prove to be more than just an inconvenience.

I was worried that they would be my downfall.

I was more than just aware of the Dark Lord's demands for precision. He heaped rewards upon those whose loyalty and aptitude for killing were outstanding; he had no qualms about murdering those who lacked the finesse necessary to execute his plans.

I was terrified that one tiny slip would cost me my life; terrified that I would betray everyone in a thoughtless moment of indecision.

I was afraid of myself because Potter and all his noble exploits had taught me something: ignorance is just as dangerous as ingenuity. Knowledge isn't a weapon so much as a liability; the weak are here to justify the strong. It would be easier to take my orders and forget myself.

To forget everything and everyone.

To act as if I was inhuman and unfeeling and all that I'd tried so hard to be for so long.

To simply _exist_.

OOO

I stumbled upon her in the library. She was slumped in a chair, looking worn and tired, her eyes feverishly scanning a page of her Arithmancy book.

"So, Mudblood, did your bodyguards give my regards to Pomfrey like I asked them to?" I leaned up against her table, watching with some interest as she snapped the volume shut and scraped her chair back.

"No, but they did outline several _extremely_ plausible plans to kill you," she replied coldly, snatching up her bag and stuffing some parchment in.

"How very original," I yawned.

She didn't respond, didn't so much as glare at me. She seemed as bored with the exchange as I was pretending to be.

"You know, I read something rather fascinating in the _Prophet_ yesterday," I commented.

"While I'm touched you're under the _misapprehension_ that we're just the best of friends, I would like nothing more than to hex you into the next century. So try something new and _shut up_," she said acidly, slinging a bag heavy with books over her shoulder and pushing past me.

"Oh, but I wasn't finished. You see, there was an article about Viktor Krum and his new girlfriend in there," he called out to her, grinning in triumph as she stopped walking and her back tensed.

"As little as I've ever understood you, this makes the least sense. What does that have to do with me?" she ground out, still not facing me.

"Don't pretend you're as dense as Weasley."

"Oh, please. You want me to say how utterly heartbroken I am, right? You want me to break down and cry, lamenting about lost love and how very much it _hurts_. You want to see me crumple to the floor again, because once just wasn't enough, was it?" she murmured, voice trembling. She'd finally spun around to spear me with a contemptuous gaze.

"Once will _never_ be enough," I told her, snorting at her melodramatic outburst.

"And to think I was stupid enough to think you were just jealous of Harry," she mused. "I had no idea _I_ was included in that category. How…nice."

"Oh, yes. I've always been curious as to what being a mudblood is like, and since you were lucky enough to be _born _one, I'm nothing short of envious," I explained lightly.

"You're also undoubtedly curious about what having a fully functional brain is like," she shot back.

"Yes, Potter and I share that trait, unfortunately," I said with mock sadness.

"Lucky for him your similarities end there."

Before I could finish blinking, she was gone.

OOO

Since our nighttime rendezvous had stopped due to the steadily dropping temperature, Pansy and I had little time to cultivate a real relationship. Our indifferent embraces and unaffectionate conversations didn't make us appear to be a couple in love: but we were. Oh, we were.

In the last week of the month, she shook me awake in the middle of the night.

"Draco," she whispered, her lips brushing against me ear as she spoke.

I groaned into my pillow, refusing to budge.

"It's snowing outside," she said excitedly.

I was immediately awake, slamming my forehead against hers as we tumbled off my bed and landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

We smothered our laughter as we slithered through the dark, drafty castle. Sure enough, a pure white wonderland awaited us outside.

There was a delicate, soft glow to the air as waifs of icy moisture tumbled down in a chaotic mess. There were still patches of frozen grass peeking through the blanket of snow, but they were quickly covered: it was magical, standing there and watching time pass me by, each and every minute winding down to indescribable irrelevance.

"It's beautiful," I finally mumbled, stunned.

Pansy reached out to enfold me in a hug, her face pressed into my neck.

But all I saw, all I could think about, was what the true coming of winter meant.

And as I shut my eyes to the harsh intensity of the freezing wind, I saw the image that in less than a month would be forever branded across my forearm.

OOO


	5. V

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FIVE**

It was a half-hour before curfew, and Pansy and I were walking slowly, our fingers entwined and our voices low.

"Draco, are you sure you're ready for it?"

Her tone was anxious, but not her eyes; her eyes were _ecstatic_. They were gleaming with ambition, glowing with impatience: she couldn't contain her excitement.

"Pansy," I said, exasperated, "if you want one so badly, why don't you just _do_ it and get it over with?"

There was a tense moment of silence before she abruptly wrenched her hand from my grasp and yanked up her sleeve. Laughing, I glanced down; a millisecond later my world had shifted on its axis.

I was falling, faster and faster, blurry memories and blurry faces cascading together and entrenching me in a whirlwind of perplexity; everything was too clear, too sharp, too vividly and frighteningly _real_. Sounds, horrible and unpleasant and unidentifiable, were barricading my eardrums shut, pounding through my head and echoing within my skull.

My gait, so steady and sure, had turned into an erratic stumble, my wrists knocking against the stone walls and my palms grazing my own face. She was asking me something, was reaching out to try and right the wrong she'd thrust upon me with no warning and even less reason.

There was color and motion, a kaleidoscope of sensitivity churning my stomach and escalating my pulse; blood was rushing through my veins, and I was sentient of every lost drop. I was clinging desperately to basic human instinct, my terror inconsistent and oddly rash: I was aching and there wasn't a cure.

"How long?" I finally asked harshly. I heard her swallow, felt rather than saw her moisten her lips before speaking.

"Since summer."

"So, what, you just weren't ever going to tell me? Were just waiting for the '_right moment_'? What, did you think I'd be _angry_ with you, or something?" I burst out, chuckling cruelly. Much to my horror, she sighed.

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you," she replied coolly. "I knew you would react like this."

"React like _what_? Do you really think I don't have a right to be mad? You've spent the past five months _lying_ to me, Pansy! How, in any way, is that insignificant?" I demanded.

"I never _lied_ to you. I just didn't tell you. Because I _knew_ you'd be furious that I got the Mark before you."

"_This has nothing to do with the bloody Mark, Pansy_!" I shouted, my temper finally snapping.

"That's where you're wrong, Draco. You can say all you bloody well want that this about _loyalty_ and _trust_ and all that sentimental crap you spin at me, but let me be brutally honest with you. It will _always_ be about the Mark with you. It will _always_ be about power and absolution and _security_. Why do you think I've always liked you? _You're just like me_."

"I would have _told_ you, Pansy. I wouldn't have kept a secret of this magnitude from someone I _love_," I responded, my voice cracking.

"Maybe. But that doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"Why did you show me?"

She was silent for a long moment.

"I suppose it was because I didn't want you to feel you were alone," she finally answered.

"What are you talking about?"

"I really don't know," she smiled ruefully, scuffing her shoes against the flagstone floor.

"Do me a favor and tell me when you figure it out, then."

And then I sauntered away, refusing to admit that my heart was crumbling to dust as she stayed quiet and I stayed alone.

OOO

I was rounding the corner, tying my scarf around my neck, when I saw her hugging them goodbye.

Weasley said something and she gave him a playful shove, her tinkling laughter a painful reminder of Pansy's; Potter looked solemn as he squeezed her tightly, his fingers splayed unevenly across her back.

"How _sweet_," I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest and leveling a sneer in their direction. "If it wasn't so nauseating I might be touched."

"It figures you'd find any meaningful display of affection '_nauseating_'," Granger told me haughtily.

"No, that's not it at all. It's actually any meaningful display of affection involving _you_, Granger."

"Shut it, Malfoy," Weasley snapped.

I felt my mouth twist into a grimace of disdain as I regarded him.

"Further proof you're a muggle-loving idiot like your father," I sighed.

Granger snorted at this, her cheeks aflame as she pushed past her two friends to confront me.

"Don't you have to go torture a house-elf, or completely ruin someone _else's_ farewell?" she asked me.

"Look around, Granger. Do you see any house-elves?" I whispered seriously.

"No, I see you. And it's quite—what was the word you used, again? Oh, yes—it's quite _nauseating_," she responded, earning a chuckle from both Weasley and Potter.

And then they turned their backs on me, the boys flanking her as they walked her to the carriages.

I glared at her retreating form, my breath hitching as I thought of how utterly magnificent it would feel to wrap my hands around that milky white throat and press harder and harder, right up until there was no more resistance left. I imagined the panicked expression that would overwhelm her features, the alarm and the _fear_ lurking behind the desperation; she wouldn't just be weak, she'd be fighting a losing battle.

I wouldn't just be rendering her useless and vulnerable; I'd be _winning_.

_Three more days_, I thought listlessly. _Three more days until everything you've ever wanted will be your; three more days until everything you ever wanted will disappoint you._ _Three more days until you lose your identity and relish in anonymity._  
And as I boarded the train, I realized suddenly that I'd never been happier.

OOO


	6. VI

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I apologize for the shortness of this, since it's inexcusable that it be a mere 750 words, but there was nothing else to write about this episode in his life. This chapter is the reason why I despise fanfiction. I honestly feel that I have no right to take liberties with situations that _I_ didn't create and have literally no knowledge of. I made the whole initiation thing as simple and as irrelevant as possible; I really did try my hardest to focus on thought and feeling rather than action. Furthermore, I'd like to explain the absence of Lucius Malfoy's actual presence: as a writer, his character frightens me. I find it impossible to describe someone who will love their son but sacrifice morality. So I turned the reception of the Mark into a one-on-one-with-Voldemort type of thing. I purposely made this chapter be devoid of dialogue and consist of mostly reflection. I can do nothing but hope I didn't mess it up too terribly.

OOO

**CHAPTER SIX**

It was so much slower, so much more excruciating, than I'd ever dreamed.

I'd walked into the decrepit old room, my palms sweaty and my throat dry, confident that with a burst of light and a second of agony the process would be complete. The Dark Lord himself had done nothing to ease my disquiet; in fact, he hadn't spoken to me at all. He'd merely beckoned me forward, the dim candlelight obscuring his features.

I had been trembling as I lifted up the sleeve of my robe, baring the pale skin of my forearm and willing myself to remain still. I gulped loudly when his cold fingers traced a line down my skin; immediately, he shifted and I felt his eyes bore into my own.

His amusement was almost palpable in the emptiness; shame flooded my cheeks as I realized he was stifling his laughter. I straightened my back and ceased my whimpering, my eyelids snapping shut as I heard him mutter something under his breath.

A moment later there was a faint tingle all over my body, distracting me so that I barely noticed the steady pinpricks of pain shooting across my wrist. This went on for several minutes, the uniformity lulling me into a false sense of security. I began to think that the intimidation factor was a pointless introduction to what would ultimately be an anticlimactic ending; maybe I had imagined the humility he'd heaped upon me in our brief exchange, fraught with tension.

I'd even begun to congratulate myself on my undeserved, unwarranted paranoia: right up until my entire left arm was consumed by a blazing inferno of unprecedented power. If I'd thought that the fire would go away, would be put out as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had come, I was wrong.

I wanted to scream, but couldn't find my voice; I wanted to clutch at something, anything, just to anchor me to the ground, but had lost command of my own body. I was indistinctly aware of my muscles contracting repeatedly, my legs locked in a petrifying dance of control versus anarchy.

Rebellion was the focus of this massive alteration: it was a revolution, not a responsibility.

Invisible cords, seeped in capriciousness, were binding me to something; it was conscious torture to tie those knots as gently and unhurriedly as possible. My teeth were clenched together so hard that the enamel was being ground to dust; oxygen was suddenly a privilege rather than a right.

I cursed myself for my abject weakness, for my inherent desire to run away from the madly brilliant offer of relevant potency. A jolt of electricity coursed through my thin frame, alighting nerves I'd been unaware I possessed.

After an eternity, everything stopped.

Blithely, I opened my eyes and stared at the area of my arm that would never be my own again.

A steaming black skull, a snake protruding from its mouth, was imprinted on my skin. It seemed so unreal, so _wrong_ that what I'd always assumed would be my destiny was already _there_.

I'd been unduly sure that I would feel a change in myself afterwards. So sure that once I'd been marked I could start over again.

So sure that it would be the absolute fulfillment of everything I'd ever wanted.

And as I continued my visual perusal of my latest and most permanent physical adornment, I wanted nothing more than to fall to my knees and beg him to take it back.

Fate couldn't be so cruel, I wanted to shout. Fate wouldn't play such a joke on anyone. The irony of forsaking my individuality for a grain of power, only to find that I was still the same pathetic coward I'd been before, was too unbearable. I had the gall to be afraid of my own decisions, had the audacity to affront my own maturity and question my own judgment.

Wordlessly, I stalked from the room and fled through the endless doors, collapsing finally in a filthy, abandoned washroom. I gaped up into the grimy, cracked mirror, shocked at what I saw.

I saw someone who bore no resemblance to me: a scared little boy with too-long blond hair and an open expression of unassailable grief etched into his very pores. I saw a selfishly spoiled bully whose pointed face and curling lip were nothing but perfect accessories to the ink-wrought glory of his forearm. I saw someone who would never be good enough for stardom, but would happily settle for contemptuous fame.

I braved a smile into the worn surface of the glass.

_It can only get better_, I told myself silently, wretchedly. _Because it certainly can't get any worse_.

I pretended I wasn't holding back tears as I trudged back through the house.

OOO


	7. VII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I literally had five whole pages written of this chapter when I decided I hated it. Draco was coming off clinically depressed rather than frustrated, and Hermione was being far too nice considering recent events. So I changed things around and made this _the_ pivotal chapter: a rash decision made at the end will be the spark that ignites the whole romantic sequence of this. A good sign that I'll maintain inspiration is that I've thought of an ending; unfortunately, it's bittersweet.

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

I was holding open the door of the Three Broomsticks for Pansy when the first screams were heard. They were all piercing and shrill, pure terror mingling with abject desperation; shortly after, a melee of frightened students and shopkeepers was stampeding down the street.

Figures draped in black cloth and hidden behind white masks were brandishing wands and hurling deadly curses at the mass of huddled civilians. Pansy was clutching my hand, her gasp of surprise quickly replaced by a grin of satisfaction. I remained expressionless, detached from the world and all its inescapable horror.

Even as I stood there, unsure of whether I was to flee from the town or join my comrades in their senseless desecration, I knew that I wouldn't move. I would watch, powerless to stop it and unwilling to participate; I would stay on the sidelines, too weak to fight and too disinclined to help.

I remembered how barely any time had really passed since I'd craved the Mark and its homicidal corollaries; I remembered how much I'd wanted it and its license to kill.

Pansy had already left me, her cloak whipping around her ankles and a white mask tossed in her direction by a faceless man who was blowing up every building in sight.

I wanted to sprint as fast as I could away from the destruction, wanted to curl up in a defenseless little ball and sob out my imperfection.

Instead, I took a tentative step forward, allowing myself to be swept up in the rush of the wailing crowd. I saw Potter and Weasley, wands drawn, attempting to ward off the rush of Death Eaters; Granger was nowhere to be seen.

I took an elbow in the ribs from a fifth year Hufflepuff and flew several feet to the left, landing in a dejected heap in a dark alley. I resolved to wait out the attack in there, certain that I'd be protected from everything and everyone. I stumbled backwards, hoping I'd reach the back wall and collapse.

My foot collided with a body, causing me to trip and hit the pavement with a crunch.

"Oh, hell," I moaned, cradling my bruised head.

"Who's there?" a man's voice, gruff and alert, responded to my groan of distress.

"Bother that. Who are you?" I asked suspiciously, gripping my wand.

"Name's Timothy Davison," the stranger told me. "You aren't one of _them_, are you?"

"That depends entirely on who you refer to as '_them_'," I replied tartly.

"The madmen in masks, of course."

"No," I said slowly, deliberately. "No, I'm not one of them."

"Good. I'd have had to kill you if you were, you know."

"I don't doubt that for a moment."

Several minutes of silence went by, a headache of preposterous magnitude blurring my thoughts; the only sound that could be heard was the sickening combination of unearthly shrieks and boisterous laughter.

"Isn't it horrible?" Davison asked me.

"What d'you mean?"

"It's mutiny, pure and simple. They're obsessed with blood, torture the people they've already murdered just for the sake of watching 'em writhe on the floor. Bet it's even better for 'em when they do it to the living; can't be as much fun if all the fight's gone out," he answered, scratching his chin.

"They're still all human, you know. They believe in their cause just as much as you…_we_ believe in ours," I retorted heatedly, angry with the man's hostile insinuation.

"It ain't a cause, boy."

"Oh? Then what do you propose it is?"

"It's fear. They're revolting against change because it's scary. They want to sink us all back into the Dark Ages, where bloodlines were synonymous with power and the two worlds were divided by the strictest and thickest lines imaginable. They're reacting the only way people that foul can: _violence_."

"So, what, you're saying it's some kind of bloodthirsty _cult_?" I inquired, incredulous.

"In some ways, yes, I suppose. They call him '_Master_', you know. As if complete acquiescence to all his gristly requests will somehow keep whatever's left of their conscience unaware of what's going on. As if they can sit there and pretend they're being hypnotized, or brainwashed. As if anything half-decent could possibly have an effect on them."

"Then why are you hiding back here when you could be out there trying to wipe them all out?"

"And how would I do that, boy? I'm a Squib," Davison explained, sighing.

"A Squib! So, what, you're jealous of all that power those '_madmen in masks_' have over other people? That's why you hate them so much, isn't it?"

"No. I hate them because they'd choose me, a pureblooded Squib, over the most magically gifted muggle-born there is. I hate them because they're biased to the point of single-minded solidarity. I hate them because they hide behind masks and refuse to show their faces."

"What does hiding their identity have to do with anything?"

"It has _everything_ to do with it, boy. How could you _possibly_ respect a man who's _ashamed_ of himself?"

My throat went dry.

"How could you _possibly_ respect a man who _can't make up his bloody mind_ about what he wants?"

My jaw went slack.

"How could you _possibly_ respect a man who couldn't define the word honor if he had a bloody dictionary in his hand?"

I stumbled to my feet, backing into the wall and spluttering with confusion. He barely noticed my retreat, his eyes wide and fixed on a shadow standing just outside my reach.

"_Crucio_," a menacing voice whispered, aiming his wand and emitting a small chuckle of contentment as Davison twitched on the ground. The Death Eater turned his attention to me, beginning to open his mouth to speak the deadly curse again.

"No! Wait! I'm one of you!" I shouted, my heart close to bursting through my chest.

"Prove it," he hissed, wand still pointed at my head.

I slid back the sleeve of my robe and showed him my forearm; immediately, he clapped me on the shoulder and produced a mask.

"Here, you'll need this."

"What about…what about this one?" I asked breathlessly, placing the thin white plastic over my face and nodding towards Davison.

"You can have him, if you want. He's a Squib; practically useless. Not even worth killing. But go ahead, have your fun. We're nowhere near done out there, anyway."

I stared, aghast. As soon as I'd blinked, the man was gone.

"Hey, are you—"

"I don't want your help," he snarled, shoving me away as he winced.

"Listen, that was all for--"

"I _said_ that I _don't want your help_."

I abruptly pressed my lips together.

"Fine. Sit here and rot for all I care."

I was starting my walk out to the street when Davison's eerie giggling stopped me.

"What's so funny?" I demanded, an ominous chill creeping up my spine. "_What's so bloody funny_?"

"Just go on and walk away, boy. Go on and join your sorry friends. I'll die here in this alley, hurting and alone; but, to tell you the truth, I'll be happy."

"You're going to die…and you're _happy_. I knew you were crazy."

"Maybe I am. But at least I'm not you."

"You mean _alive_?"

"No. I mean frightened. I mean frightened and humiliated and indecisive. I mean weak and pathetic and _sad_."

I was already running away from him though, his poignant, haunting words echoing through my head. His raucous bellowing followed me all the way back to the now empty street, a trail of dead bodies leading up to the corner.

I was still wearing the mask as I made my way to the gruesome festival of green light and lasting sound.

OOO


	8. VIII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I lasted about twelve hours before I decided I couldn't leave this unfinished. I apologize for the scare I caused yesterday, but I missed this and before I realized what I was doing had started writing another chapter. Strange, I know. And so I would greatly appreciate it if everyone simply forgot the sixth book existed and allowed me to pretend this wasn't an improbable story. It was so heartbreaking to write this, though. Since, you know, it's now a certainty it can't happen.

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

By the time I'd reached the circle of faceless sirens bemoaning death and destruction, there was almost absolute silence. My fellow Death Eaters were standing around something I couldn't see, their wands hanging limply at their sides and their excited whispers mingling with the January frost: the result was an eerie rustle that should have induced pride, not fear. A curtain of dread enclosed me as I wordlessly pushed my way to the front of the circle.

Hermione Granger was on her knees, her wrists magically bound together and behind her back. There was an expression on her face that I'd never seen before: it was the most bizarre combination of determination and fear, fortitude and panic. She was biting her lip so hard that I could see a minute drop of blood blossom and fall, the proof of her vulnerability landing unceremoniously in the snow beneath her: slowly, it stained the icy white perfection and became nothing but a crimson memory.

Her eyes were wide, cold, and hard. They expelled her reluctant desperation with a stunning lack of intensity; it was as if she didn't want to be rescued.

Her eyebrows were drawn together in concentration and I wondered if she was contemplating death. If she was thinking about those final bittersweet seconds of light and color and sound. If she was remembering everything she regretted or everything she loved. I wanted to know what was going on behind those brittle beacons of endurance; I wanted to know what could drive someone to keep quiet when all she had to do was scream, cry, tear at the ground as the curse seeped into her: just a little bit longer and it would be over.

But she wouldn't open her mouth. She stayed still, resolute, her breathing even and her cheeks flushed.

It amazed me that she could kneel in front of twenty-something Death Eaters and maintain that impenetrable façade of gritty indifference. I watched her from behind my mask, drinking in every inch of her: she was so frail, so small, compared to the hulking shapes that surrounded her.

"We've saved you for last, Mudblood," someone hissed at her, twirling their wand and chuckling.

"I'd thank you for the special treatment but I'm not entirely sure you'd understand words that consist of more than two syllables," she retorted, biting back a wince as the ropes tightened around her wrists.

"Wouldn't be so quick to talk. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll wish I'd killed you," the same hooded figure told her.

"Oh, so you've finally made up your mind to torture me, then? How lovely. We'll have something in common afterwards. Since, you know, Voldemort really likes to express his affection with--"

"Shut up! How dare you speak his name?"

"Come now," she replied easily. "You're about to put me through unimaginable pain and you're telling me I can't say his _name_?"

"You don't have rights. You're scum. Filth. A pestilence to wizard-kind that must be exterminated."

"Please," she snorted sarcastically, "don't stop there. I'm terribly immodest."

"_Crucio_," the man shouted.

I gave an involuntary gasp as her features contorted in agony and she pressed her lips together; her arms convulsed as she unconsciously tried to wrench them from behind her. She kicked out and flopped from side to side, her hair flying behind her and her nostrils flaring indelicately.

Yet she refused to scream.

"This is wrong," I mumbled to myself.

"I know," a familiar voice whispered into my ear.

Before I could register my shock, Snape had petrified the man who'd been bent on tormenting Granger; as soon as he'd sprinted to her side, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, thirty or so wizards brandishing wands and yelling hexes come out from behind the empty buildings.

I tore off my mask and watched, disinterested, as one by one my comrades fell. I'd seen Pansy rush off towards the castle, her robes billowing out behind her as she escaped. I didn't move, didn't try to save myself: I was stuck, staring, at Granger.

She was sweating slightly, her lips bruised and swollen and crusted with blood; she was being held up by Snape, a flask tilted towards her open mouth. She looked too weak to move, too broken to speak.

Her eyes, however, far from fluttering shut, were brimming with unshed tears: she was finally succumbing to the terror that had evidently gripped her from the very second she'd been captured.

OOO

I stood in the shower, letting the hot water sprinkle over my body, and tried to forget I was crying.

I'd never seen someone die. I had never, not even once, witnessed an Unforgivable Curse be performed on an actual person. I'd never been presented with the chance to murder someone, never been offered the chance to end someone else's life.

I glanced down at my left arm, my gaze settling on the patch of skin that I'd forfeited for a lifetime of dubious bloodshed.

As if I was possessed, I grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed at the Mark, harder and harder, knowing it wouldn't come off yet praying it would fade, just a little. I scratched at it with my fingernails, sprayed it with water, snatched at a washcloth and rubbed at it until my skin was raw and pink. I let out a sob as a steady stream of moisture flowed over it: it wasn't going to disappear.

I collapsed onto the tile, clutching my arm and wishing, wishing, _wishing_ I could sit there forever and pretend that everything was going to be alright, like a fairytale.

_But fairytales aren't real_.

OOO


	9. IX

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Well. So sorry for the lack of updates in the past week or so. Last Thursday I turned twenty and was whisked away to Cancun for the weekend. For any of you who read _A Little Piece of Sincerity_, you're aware that I was dumped by my boyfriend of nearly three years right in the middle of writing it. I was extremely upset and went through the normal phases of alternately believing in and hating the concept of love. However, my sense of romanticism is back with a vengeance. I rarely, if ever, write about my personal life, but I feel I should offer an explanation for any traces of giddiness that can be found in this chapter. You see, a few weeks ago I started casually dating one of my friends who I met years and years ago at a concert; I sort of did it to pass the time and whatnot, but that was all until he turned up in my bedroom at four in the morning, packed for me, and carried me to his car to take me to Mexico. For several hours I was convinced I was dreaming, and even though I actually don't like Mexico all that much, I just need to expound upon the important part: this boy is _wonderful_. I'm gushing, I know, but this all has a point, I promise. While chapter six seven was the pivotal chapter for the story itself, this chapter is the pivotal chapter for the _romance_. And the whole reason I went on about how in love I am is because my own happiness has spurred me to finally write the beginnings of love for Draco. It's probable I would have procrastinated further and put him through another ten chapters of angst before letting him have a heartbreaking epiphany in the middle of an empty hallway.

OOO

**CHAPTER NINE**

"God, Draco, what's with you lately? You're so…_distant_," Pansy complained, her sweaty palm wrapped around my limp, lifeless hand.

"I'm just tired," I replied automatically, letting her steer me towards the empty Charms hallway.

"No," she said sharply, "you're not."

"Fine. I'm not. Whatever."

"Draco," she murmured, suddenly looking anxious, "just tell me what's wrong. I'm worried about you."

I stared at her, saddened by her pronouncement: if she had meant it, if she had bothered to sound genuinely concerned, I would have told her. I would have fallen to my knees and sobbed out all my frustration, all my doubts, all my fears. I would have begged her to comfort me, begged her to help me; I would have asked her for advice, for guidance.

Instead, I slid my fingers from her grasp and took a step backwards.

"Oh? Exactly _why_ are you worried about me, Pansy? Perhaps it's the dark circles under me eyes—or, wait, no, maybe it's the fact that I haven't spoken in a week—but, no, I don't think that's it either. I wonder what it could _possibly_ be?" I mused, an edge to my voice that I'd never adopted with her.

For a fleeting second, she looked frightened.

"Maybe it's because I _love_ you, Draco," she burst out, feigning exasperation.

I didn't move, didn't breathe, for a full minute.

I'd waited for so long to hear those words; so long that I couldn't remember why I'd wanted her to say them in the first place. I knew that I should have felt triumphant, should have been satisfied that she'd finally broken down and granted me my greatest wish.

But the circumstances, the timing, it was all so painfully wrong.

"Do you mean that?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, clearly relieved that I was going to abandon my momentary aggression.

"No. No, you don't," I told her, shaking my head and snorting.

"Draco, what are you talking about? Of course I love you," she said slowly, evidently alarmed.

"Will you stop _lying_ to me, Pansy? Just do me that _one_ favor," I shouted angrily.

"I don't--"

"Of _course_ you don't know what I'm talking about. Of _course_ you're going to pretend I'm a raving lunatic who's making false accusations against your _honor_. But for just a few minutes, let's be honest, alright? _You never loved me_," I spat out cruelly.

"But, Draco, yes I--"

"No, Pansy! No! You loved _this_." I lifted up my sleeve and pointed to the Mark.

"You've only had that a few weeks, how can you--"

"How can _I_? How can _I_ insinuate the truth? You're right. How _dare_ I say something and mean it."

"I have no idea what--"

"Oh, yes you do. You knew I was going to get it, eventually, didn't you? You knew that I wanted it, craved it, even? You knew that once I got it I couldn't take it back, knew that once I was sentenced to this life of indecision and servitude I couldn't run away. You _knew it_ and you didn't tell me and _it's all your fault_," I yelled petulantly.

"There's no reason to blame me because you're a _coward_," she informed me coldly, arching her brow and smirking.

"There is _every_ reason to blame you, Pansy. I _loved_ you and you _knew_ that and you…" I trailed off, laughing faintly. "And you…you just _tossed it back_…you just…acted like it was all so _cute_ and…and meaningless. You…" I glanced up at the ceiling, shutting my eyes against the tears that threatened to spill over.

"You _enjoyed_ what they were doing last week. You liked it. You jeered with them and killed with them and you…you were in your _element_. I just…I don't…I didn't even _know_ you, Pansy."

"Grow up, Draco. You're right about one thing, though: you can't take it back."

She walked around me and turned the corner.

"_But I want to_," I mumbled. "Oh, God, do I want to."

I sighed and turned, heading in the opposite direction of Pansy.

When I reached the corner, I froze.

Hermione Granger stood there, her hand over her mouth, gaping at me.

"Granger--" I began, irritated and disturbed.

"You…I always thought…Shouldn't be surprised, but…_Oh, my God_," she whispered, backing up and hitting the wall.

"Listen, whatever you think you--"

"So," she interrupted, abruptly straightening, "were you in that circle last week? Was it your dad or your dad's best friend who put that curse on me?'

"Granger I had nothing to do--"

"Of course you had nothing to do with it. Let's see what Dumbledore thinks about that theory," she suggested furiously.

"_Granger_. _I didn't do any of that. _I spent the whole day hiding in an alley with a worthless Squib who was more opinionated than you," I explained desperately.

"Did you have a mask on that day?" she inquired indifferently.

I hesitated.

"Yes, but that doesn't--"

"See this?" She pulled down the collar of her robes a bit, exposing a dark purple bruise on her collarbone. "And this?" Up went her sleeve. "Oh, and this one?" Her neck. "And all these?" Ankle. Elbow. Back.

"Granger, I saw what they--"

"You don't _get it_, do you?"

"I didn't do anything, Granger, you have to--"

"_You're all the same_," she seethed. "Once you put on that mask, you're literally indistinguishable from each other. It doesn't _matter_ that it wasn't you, personally, who performed an Unforgivable on me. It might as _well_ have been you."

Silence reigned in the corridor. She was gasping for air as she fought to control herself; I didn't so much as blink.

"I know. It's just like Pansy said, isn't it? I can't take it back."

I stumbled past her.

"I should have just stuck with tormenting the first years, then. I'm starting to think I'm not cut out for my father's lifestyle."

She didn't call out a retort as I left her; but when I reached the safety of my dormitory, I broke down.

I curled up and forced my eyes closed, terrified that if I opened them I'd see the tender proof of my vilification: like a gristly outline of all my weaknesses, her bruises were haunting.

_It might as well have been me_.

OOO


	10. X

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I'm getting really bad at the updating thing, I know. But this story is much more difficult for me to write. I'd explain why, but I can't. Suffice it to say that it's not lack of inspiration: I have plenty of that. Nor is it writer's block. It's more like I'm reluctant to finish it. Like I'm looking for something in it when I'm writing and I can't find it. But then again I'm an artist that actually hasn't been tortured, so who knows. It might just be me.

**CHAPTER TEN**

_Dreamers are an endangered species_, I thought listlessly, my eyes focused on the dark gray feather floating through the air. I marveled at how light it was, how the intricate and abrupt flips and turns it made could be so delicate; it had no control over where it went, where it landed, and was ultimately estranged from where it belonged.

It was falling slowly and couldn't stop: there was something achingly familiar about the concept.

Twilight enveloped me as I skipped a rock across the lake. The ripples that formed on the surface were stunning in their perfection; proud and even, they flitted over the water, disappearing into its depths when there was nothing left for them to do.

The abject purity of nature humbled me. I felt dirty, contaminated, the searing patch of skin sullying the simplistic beauty that surrounded me. I had the crazy thought that if I just jumped in, let the obsolete integrity of the lake wash over me; I could pretend I was whole again.

People trickled past me as quickly as Time: they were a blur, their faces and their personalities blending together to create a mural of condescension. Their laughter and their playful shouts were otherworldly, their footsteps silent on the springy grass beneath their feet.

I wondered if they, too, hated themselves. I wondered if they, too, were drifting into a bottomless pit of regret and self-pity. I wondered if they, too, could feel their fingertips slipping on chaos; I wondered if they, too, wished that they were children again: made up of glorious naivety and blissful irresponsibility.

I was in over my head and I couldn't sleep my way out of it. I was drowning in sorrows that held no meaning, in memories of things that hadn't happened yet. I could feel the future, not see it.

And as I threw off my robes, loosened my tie, and took a deep breath, I'd never been more afraid.

OOO

I didn't know how long I swam aimlessly through the lake. I was waiting for something miraculous, something momentous, to happen; I was waiting for life to change, for the circumstances surrounding my misery to magically alter. I wanted it to be December again; fresh, fresh snow and my own sweet oblivion.

I trudged out of the water, shivering as the light winter breeze struck my bare shoulders. I was reaching for my shirt when I heard her.

She was sitting with her knees pulled up, her face turned towards the moon. She was alone and she was crying: tears fell like so much rubbish from her eyes and her nose was scrunched up as she fought back a sob. Her skin was pale in the dim light, her lips rosy even as her teeth tore at them.

I'd seen her vulnerable, I'd seen her scared, and I'd seen her weak. But I'd never seen her let her guard down, never seen her bare her soul out of her own volition.

I thought about how mortified she would be if I were to call out her name, interrupt her grief and pester her with my usual negligence. I thought about how stricken she would be, how angry and upset and _hurt_; I thought about our last encounter and that helpless, choking sensation that had overwhelmed my common sense.

I thought about it and plastered a smile on my face.

"Granger! What a coincidence. I was _just_ thinking about you," I shouted cruelly, walking towards her and twirling my tie.

She didn't say anything as she stared at me. She didn't appear entirely surprised by my presence: no, she seemed tired. Her eyes, normally sharp and clever and devastatingly condescending had transformed into dead, lifeless orbs that served no purpose but to shutter the window to her soul. She wasn't making any attempt to hide her current state of melodrama; she let the tears cascade down her cheeks, let her misery shine through.

"How nice," she finally said dispassionately, turning her attention towards the stars.

"What's wrong with you, Granger?" I frowned, her fiery denunciation of the previous day echoing through my head.

My inquiry had been innocent enough, but she leaped to her feet and speared me with a glare.

"How can you, _you_ of all people, ask me that?" she demanded, a thick lock of hair sticking to the moist skin of her chin.

"I wonder exactly _which_ unpleasant trait of mine you're referring to when you say that," I mused icily, my heart racing.

"Taking into consideration that they're _infinite_ I'm sure you'll be pondering that for a long time," she spat, moving to grab her bag.

"There's that razor wit everyone's always talking about," I snarled. "I'd begun to wonder if you'd forgotten how to use it."

"How ironic, then, that speaking to you is traumatizing enough to induce such a reaction," she returned.

"It must be your inferiority complex," I suggested sarcastically.

"No, I just have this thing about conversing with _Death Eaters--_" she began.

"You little--" I interrupted, taking a menacing step forward.

"You see," she said loudly, effectively ending my tirade before it started. "You see, it's the most remarkable thing. I have…what are they called again? Oh, yes, I have _morals_. And it's complicated, I know, but I sort of _stick to them_. Murder and torture and all that are a bit on the _repulsive_ side for me and _oddly enough_ so are you."

And then she laughed, and the sound cut into me like a knife.

"So _why_, Malfoy? Why _me_?"

"What are you talking about?" I whispered.

"There are a thousand other people in this school. Hundreds of them muggle-borns, hundreds others far easier targets. _Why me_?"

I swallowed and glanced away.

"Why do you follow me around, pick on me, torment me to the point where we're both disgusted with ourselves? Why do you have to prove yourself to be evil when you already admitted you're not cut out for it? Why do you sit there and pretend you have no idea what I'm talking about, that you weren't there that day, that you have no memory of that man putting that curse on me? Why do you--"

"_Because I hate you!_" I yelled, unable to contain myself. "I _hate_ you and _everything_ you stand for. You preach about purity, and goodness, and everything else I _won't ever be_ and I _hate_ it! People fall for it every day, all your let's-go-fight-the-Dark-Lord-_together_ crap, and I _hate_ it. No, I won't ever be a model Death Eater; but I can't be one of you, either, so I'll just stick with what I know, alright? In the meantime, I'll just go on making your life hell on earth, because that's just about the only satisfaction I can get anymore."

"How odd, then, that I could have sworn you were trying to get me to think otherwise yesterday," she responded softly, shaking her head.

"You're delusional," I said flatly.

"Clearly. After all, I'd thought for the past six years that your fixation was with Harry, not me."

"You're all the same."

"As are you and your…_friends_," she said mockingly.

I yanked out my wand as I glared, itching to hex her. She was smirking, her gaze settled on something behind me.

"I would put that away if I were you," she advised.

"Why, so you can get me with one of those ridiculous little curses you have up your--"

My arm was twisted painfully behind my back as my wand clattered to the ground.

"Malfoy, you weren't bothering Hermione, were you?" Weasley growled into my ear.

"What else would I do with my time, Weasley? I suppose I could always go meet your sister in that delightful broom closet, but she's not even that good, and it was the _most _inconvenient time--"

The punch was thrown before I could close my mouth. Weasley's knuckle collided with my front teeth, blood splattering his wrist and pouring out of my gums.

"I've been waiting to do this for _years_," he sneered.

And then everything went black.

OOO

I was stumbling back towards my dormitory, bruises littering my body in places I hadn't known existed. My robes were crusted with blood and my wand had been cleanly snapped in two. Weasley had beaten me soundly, his fists marking up my skin like ink on paper. My ankle was throbbing and I was fairly certain he'd dislocated something in my knee.

I fell against a wall on the second floor, my head hitting the stone and my lips emitting a groan. I cradled my skull in trembling hands, massaging the tender spots and wishing I was in bed.

I heard footsteps and opened a puffy eyelid. A small figure was walking towards me, their robes billowing ominously around their feet.

"Do you need some help?" the boy asked me, a dull sense of foreboding causing me to look at him more closely. There was something familiar in his words, something oddly _personal_…

I nodded as I reached out a hand.

To my surprise, he took his leg back and kicked me in the stomach, his shoe making contact with my rib.

"How unfortunate that I'm the one to find you, then," he hissed.

I remembered, then. I remembered the bruises and the blood and the sorry state of his robes. I remembered my offer of assistance, my harsh laughter as I tossed him aside and reveled in the tawdry power I held over those who were weaker than I. I remembered his grunt of agony and my own twisted pleasure.

I remembered and I was suddenly numb, each and every injury I'd acquired that day reminding me of things I'd said, and done, and thought.

And in a rare moment of lucidity, I realized I deserved it.

OOO


	11. XI

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

_We were running, laughing, in love: a burst of air escaped me as she stumbled over her feet and fell. The icy moisture coating the grass was our only welcome as we landed in a tangled heap; a strand of her hair found its way onto my cheek as she curved her arms around my shoulders. _

_"Draco," she whispered, straddling my waist and brushing her lips against my ear._

_"Yeah?"_

_"Promise me something."_

_"Anything."_

_"Promise me…" she stopped, taking a fortifying gulp of oxygen and shifting slightly._

_"Pansy?"_

_"Promise me you'll never let me go."_

_I stared into the sky for a moment before formulating a reply. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified that whatever I said might be misconstrued as insincere; I wanted her to know that she was perfect, that we were perfect. I wanted her to know that she made everything bleak seem tolerable, that she made everything wonderful seem better; I wanted her to know that she brightened my days, that her smile and her eyes and her face frequented my sleepless nights._

_I wanted her to know everything, but was so incredibly frightened of scaring her away that I merely nodded, my chin brushing against her neck._

_"Draco?"_

_"Don't worry, Pansy."_

_She was silent, mulling over my words._

_"I'm not worried. I'm…happy," she responded, sounding wholly surprised._

_I rolled over, covering her body with my own._

_"Pansy," I murmured into her mouth, my breath mingling with hers._

_"Yeah?"_

_"Promise me something."_

_"Anything."_

_"Promise me…" I trailed off, uncertain how to phrase my request._

_"Draco?"_

_"Promise me you'll never change. Promise me you'll never be any different than you are right now, this very second. Promise me," I implored softly, painfully aware that I was making an impossible demand._

_ "You know I can't," she told me._

_"Please, Pansy. Promise me."_

_"I…" she seemed unable to complete the sentence, her eyebrows scrunched together as she regarded me with some confusion._

_"Please."_

_"I promise," she finally said, trailing her hand down the line of my jaw and pulling me closer. "I promise."_

OOO

I woke up with a blinding headache and a noxious heartache; I'd dreamed a memory and wanted nothing more than to grab the nearest pillow and scream out my frustration.

I quickly got myself dressed and fled my dormitory, wispy visions of Pansy in her nightgown and a cloak, beckoning to me with an impish grin to follow her outside, haunting me. I wandered through the hallways, hands stuffed in my pockets as I traversed staircases and ignored the questioning glares sent my way by those who I'd tormented at some point.

I was so lost in myself that I didn't even notice the two figures standing in front of the Owlery.

"Hey, Malfoy, what happened to your face? Have another run-in with a first year?" Potter shouted at me, his and Weasley's insolent laughter ringing in my ears.

"No, but I did have a run-in with someone whose _intellect_ matched that of a first year," I said through my teeth, willing myself not to break down.

"All that aside, I certainly would have paid to see you get your pale little arse kicked," Potter smirked.

"How unfortunate that your…_sidekick_ couldn't have afforded the admission, then," I shot back.

The redhead lurched forward, a determined, menacing expression on his face.

"Oh, come now, Weasley. You did this yesterday," I yawned, feigning boredom.

He continued to come at me, though, his fist raised and his eyes flashing fire; a second before he drew back to launch a punch, Granger intervened.

"Ron! No! What are you doing?" she demanded angrily, shoving past Potter to grab Weasley's shoulder.

"Hitting him?" he answered stupidly, glancing from me to her.

"Listen," she said under her breath, glaring at him, "you're lucky you got away with yesterday. Don't pick a fistfight in the middle of a hallway. He got what he deserved and will probably be nursing bruises for the next year. _Let. It. Go._"

"But—Hermione, you don't understand, he--"

"Fine! Go ahead! Hit him! But don't expect me to explain your indiscretion to McGonnagal when she comes around that corner in a few seconds," she said, clearly exasperated.

Sure enough, a minute went by and the Transfiguration professor appeared, her spectacles resting on her nose and her shrewd eyes taking in the scene before her. She nodded at each of them in turn before continuing down the corridor and stepping into her office.

Potter and Weasley were staring at Granger with identical expressions of total reverence etched onto their faces. I snorted, pushing past the three of them and entering the tower that housed the school's owls.

I couldn't stand the way they worshipped her, couldn't stand the way she was _always right_. If I'd been stronger, if I'd been less of a coward, I wouldn't have stormed away; if I'd been more of a fighter I wouldn't have run away from them.

"Malfoy?" her voice interrupted my loathsome thoughts, and I whipped my head around to see her standing in the doorway.

"What, are you going to have a go at me now, Granger?" I asked, laughing humorlessly.

"No. But I'm not heartless, and those bruises you have clearly need medical attention. You should see Madam Pomfrey," she explained to me, businesslike.

"My, my, Granger, are you concerned about my wellbeing? Are you, dare I say it, anxious that I might be in _pain_?" I asked mockingly, bitter that she pitied me enough to suggest a visit to the hospital wing.

"Pain? You know _nothing_ about _pain_," she hissed, her entire body stiffening.

"Oh, but I beg to differ. You see, I know more about pain than you could ever imagine. The kind that makes everything else, everything happy, everything good, pale in comparison. The kind that sucks out every last ounce of dignity and makes you desperate to _die_. The kind that can't be induced with a curse. Tell me you know what that's like, Granger. _I dare you_."

She wasn't looking at me when I finished speaking; her eyes were trained on the wall behind me, her jaw clenched and her countenance stony.

"You had a choice, Malfoy. You were in control. You knew what you were doing, you knew what you were getting into. You knew that you were as much a part of that curse I was hit--"

"Will you _stop_ mentioning that? Bloody hell, I get it! We all get it, Granger! You were wronged, drastically, that day, and clearly no one's going to get to hear the last of it, least of all me," I interrupted loudly.

She looked at me oddly.

"You're different," she finally told me.

"Oh, no, I'm still the same cold, unfeeling bastard I was the past six years, Granger. I'd lift up my sleeve and prove it to you, but I'm not entirely sure it wouldn't traumatize you," I jeered, satisfied when she flinched at the venom in my voice.

"I will _savor_ the moment you realize you're wrong, Malfoy. _Savor_ it," she spat out, turning on her heel to leave.

"Wrong about what, Granger? _Wrong about what_?" I yelled after her.

But there was no response; I somehow knew there never would be.

OOO


	12. XII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I apologize for my irregularity in updating and the shortness of this chapter. And since I have nothing much else to add to this, I'll just stop.

OOO

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_The silence in the library was cold and it was empty, the mountains of books and the absence of people enhancing its austerity; she sat across from me, her lips pulled into what might have been a smile and her eyes lifeless with indifference. _

_"Don't you care?" I asked her desperately, mentally begging her to show emotion, to act like I mattered._

_"Not particularly," she shrugged, her quill poised above a piece of parchment._

_I stared at her in disbelief._

_"You don't care," I repeated, my senses dull. _

_"What, did you think I would?" she inquired, a ghost of a smirk alighting her features, bathing her skin in the candlelight of cruelty._

_I snapped my mouth shut, pleading with whatever higher power there was that she wouldn't, no, _couldn't_ hear my heart break. _

_"But Pansy, I--" I broke off, my words lodged in my steadily constricting throat. _

_"Yes, Draco? Was there something else you wished to say? I'll be far more interested if it's related to the weather, perhaps," she suggested mildly, her amusement akin to a knife being twisted in my chest._

_"I love you, Pansy. I love you and that's all you can say to me?" _

_"What do you want me to do? Lie?" she demanded, a glimmer of impatience tingeing her voice. _

_"Yes! I want you to lie, I want you to scream, I want you to pretend, just for a moment, that you feel something," I finally shouted, my lungs burning as I forgot to breathe._

_"Dearest Draco," she murmured, clearly pitying me._

_"Suddenly I'm dear?" I intoned sarcastically, praying she couldn't see through my mask made of irony._

_"You don't see it, do you?"_

_"See what?"_

_"Apathy _is_ love, Draco."_

_And then she laughed, and all I could do was watch the surface of the table come closer and closer as I swayed forward, my hands held out to break my fall; and then the side of my head collided with the corner of the table, and in a half a second, her triumphant grin was all that was left._

OOO

My sheets were tangled around my legs and my body was slick with sweat; my hair felt sticky and my fingers were trembling. I glanced around, taking in the snoring forms of the other boys and the chilling darkness of our dormitory: it was the middle of the night, and I couldn't even ignore my hellish existence in my sleep any longer.

I grabbed a jumper and some shoes, running a hand through my mussed hair and stepping noiselessly into the Slytherin common room. I made my way to the front of the castle, stopping at corners to listen for Filch and continuing on until I was standing in front of the lake, the quietude oddly disarming.

I sank down onto a rock, wishing that I could just _ignore_ everything and everyone, that I could escape somewhere where the past couldn't find me, couldn't remind me. I wanted to erase Pansy and that horrible day in Hogsmeade from my mind, wanted to banish it to the farthest corners of my memory and let it rot.

Until I heard footsteps.

I whipped my head around and saw Granger, her jaw dropped slightly and her eyes relaying her embarrassment. She was clad in nothing but a nightgown and a jacket, and her cheeks were tearstained.

"What are _you_ doing out of bed?" she asked me haughtily.

"I would ask you the same, but such a pointless exchange seems juvenile."

"You didn't answer my question," she persisted after a moment's hesitation.

"I had a dreadful nightmare, Granger, and since I don't have Daddy Dearest to run to I thought the giant squid would be a fine substitute," I snapped, unwilling to be honest with her.

She sighed, and the sound was so achingly soft, so achingly gentle, I was nearly undone.

"Of course, Malfoy. Of course."

She walked over to the edge of the water and crossed her arms over her chest while I did nothing but watch.

"What did you mean when you said I was wrong yesterday?" I finally whispered, angry with myself for giving in to my curiosity.

"What?" she blinked.

"What did you mean?" I repeated edgily.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that I meant you were wrong."

I snorted and leapt to feet, disappointment washing over me and humiliation not far behind.

"Of course. How silly of me to think there might have been a deeper meaning in anything you said. Naturally, you stick to facts, right?"

"Malfoy. Wait," she called out softly.

"What do you want?" I bit out, my back still turned.

"What I meant, was that you were wrong about what you said the other day. About not being able to take it back."

I didn't say anything, just waited for her to continue.

"There's always a second chance. One mistake shouldn't ruin your entire life for you."

I remained still, willing her conviction to seep into me a little bit. She sounded so sure of herself, so certain that she was right; she sounded like she knew what she was talking about, like she could predict the future and misery wasn't in mine.

Not if I didn't want it to be.

"Clearly you've never met the Dark Lord, then. He makes every mistake count," I replied tightly, unwilling to sound grateful; unwilling to heed her advice.

Unwilling to let her know she had just changed my life.

OOO


	13. XIII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_Maybe I'm doing this because words are indestructible,_ I wrote onto the creamy roll of parchment on the library table. _Maybe I'm doing this because whatever I put down in ink will be here forever, for longer than I'll be here. Maybe it's because it's final and once it's there I can't take it back. I can't change my mind. Or maybe it's just because I need to make sure that this hopefulness, this unprecedented optimism, won't go away; I need to make it permanent. _

_I can't forget last night, can't forget her words, spoken aloud with so much certainty_, I continued, biting my lip and cringing at my stupidity. _I have to remember that she, the know-it-all, only spoke facts: she had the temerity to tell me the least likely and most welcome thing anyone ever could have imagined. Therefore it had to be true, didn't it? It couldn't be something made-up, something calming but ostensibly false. It was true. And if I write it down, surely that makes it real. Real and true. That's everything I've ever wanted, isn't it? Isn't it?_

I let the tip of my quill stay suspended over the surface of the paper, the ink drying and crusting as it waited impatiently for me to continue my warbled thoughts. I'd never done this before; I'd never kept a journal, recorded emotions and ideas and dreams into a notebook. It had seemed to be the kind of thing sentimental ten year old girls did, the kind of melodramatic muggle activity I was so often funning.

I stared down at the messy lines of script I'd filled up the parchment with: disgusted with this shameless display of weakness, I shoved it away, flicking my quill along with it. A very feminine "Oh!" of surprise caused me to lift my head.

"Granger?"

"Yes," she snapped, rubbing at the small scratch on her palm.

"What are you doing here?" I asked nervously, my eyes involuntarily wandering to the evidence of my helplessness, which was lying innocently an inch away from her fingertips. Close enough for both of us to touch, to just reach out and take…

"What do you think, Malfoy? I'm _studying_. You know, _reading books_. Taking notes. The kinds of things required to pass in this mausoleum if your father can't pay your way through," she said angrily.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today," I commented lightly, willing her to walk away.

"No," she explained, eyes flashing, "_someone_ didn't _get_ to wake up today. _Someone_ was sitting outside by the lake all night. _Someone_ was kept up by the illogical arguments of _someone else's problems_. _Someone--_"

"I didn't exactly threaten you with bodily harm to be down there last night, Granger," I hissed, finally tearing my gaze off my ramblings and glaring at her.

"No, but you _did_ act like a human being for once and make me curious enough to stay!" she shot back, her voice rising.

"It's not my fault you're screwed up enough to want to go cry by the lake in the middle of the night!" I fumed, shoving my chair backwards and getting to my feet.

"Why you hypocritical, inconsiderate, _idiotic_, self-centered--"

"Careful, Granger. You're going to run out of adjectives soon," I smirked, hoping she couldn't feel the heat radiating off my cheeks.

"_You _went down there to sob about the misfortune of being born a privileged pureblood! So what gives you the right to say _anything--_"

"But _I_ don't walk around and pretend I'm all normal and wholesome! _I_ at least _know_ I have--"

"Oh, come on! You're worse than anyone here! Talking and acting and wanting everyone to believe you're better than them! I wonder if Voldemort knows you run around wishing you never--"

"_Don't finish that sentence, Granger_," I whispered evenly.

She blinked, as if she'd been unaware we were nearly shouting the middle of the library. I could feel my pulse racing, my jaw clenched painfully as I fought to maintain a semblance of composure.

"Why not?" she finally demanded. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

I was quiet.

"Isn't it?" she repeated with far less conviction.

"See, that's the problem with you Gryffindors. You're all so noble and brave and good. You'd rather commit murder than tell a lie," I responded coolly.

"What the _devil_ are you going on about?" she burst out.

"Sometimes, Granger, honesty isn't a virtue. Sometimes, one could even say it's a hindrance," I explained distantly, my hands balled into incomprehensible fists.

She pursed her lips.

"What are you really trying to hide, Malfoy?"

I halted my retort, shutting my eyes and gripping the edge of the table as I leaned forward. The floor felt like it was spinning beneath me, the lights above swirling, even if I couldn't see them.

"If I say it out loud it makes it real, Granger."

She didn't move, just watched me from under the cover of her lashes.

"Real," she murmured, sounding dazed.

"Real," I affirmed.

"So, if I don't say it out loud it's not real that you watched me be tortured?"

I swallowed uncomfortably.

"You need to get over that, Granger. My life hasn't been all that perfect either," I told her coldly.

"_Your problems aren't real, Malfoy_!" she yelled, forgetting that there were people surrounding us.

I was stunned into silence.

"You're so _fixated_ on things no one else can see, hear, care about. Stop trying to get people to pity you, when it's _your_ mistakes you have to deal with. No one else's. Blame other people all you want, but it's _your_ fault. Everything. It's _all your fault_," she spat.

I flinched at her assessment.

"So it's my fault, you're saying, that you're so bitter you can't even yell at me, your sworn enemy, without sounding pathetic?" I taunted.

"It's better to sound pathetic than _be_ pathetic," she said tightly.

"Ah, such an ambiguous implication. Practice what you preach, Granger: say what you mean," I suggested.

"So you're willing to sacrifice your ego just to get one up on me?" she inquired mildly.

"Believe me, Granger. There's nothing left of it to shred. So go on. Tell me how very much you hate me, and how very much you resent me. Go on," I prompted, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Well? What is it? I thought you had years' worth of insults to throw at me. Here's your chance. Let it all out. Come on," I urged cruelly. "What are you waiting for, Granger? Do it! Tell me what a selfish loser I am, tell me what an over privileged moron I must be. Well? _Come on! I'm waiting!_"

"You know," she eventually said, "I think I've talked to you more in the past few weeks than I have in the rest of our lives combined."

"What's your point?"

"You were right when you said I had a lot to say to you. And I've been waiting for this kind of opportunity for years. But I've realized something."

"Pray tell, what is that?" I asked sarcastically; she couldn't have known my heart was beating so furiously I was frightened.

"You're not who I thought you were," she told me simply.

And then, just when I was sure someone was seeing past my mask of indifference, she looked me in the eye.

"You're worse."

OOO


	14. XIV

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I apologize. Really, I do. But school's started, and I'm being swamped with a seemingly infinite amount of work. I have practically no time for writing that isn't related to my classes, but I've made it a personal goal to finish this story. Hopefully I'll manage another chapter sooner than I managed this one.

OOO

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

In that split-second before she turned away, I was in agony. There was something achingly eternal, achingly condemning, achingly _vital_ about her statement; it was imperative to me, inexplicably so, that she explain herself. It wasn't anything like curiosity: it went deeper than need, further than mere desire.

I wanted to _know_ everything she knew, to _see_ everything she saw. I wanted to look at myself without the aid of a mirror and I wanted her to be my spyglass. I wanted to probe into the complexity of her mind and make her understand that I wasn't who she believed me to be. I wanted her to realize that maybe, just maybe, there was a real person lurking beneath my shabby exterior.

"Granger," I called out hoarsely.

She stopped her retreat but didn't look back.

"Granger," I said again, this time more sure of myself.

"Haven't you had enough, Malfoy?" she demanded haughtily, spinning around and radiating disgust.

"I--" I was suddenly aware that I had no idea what I was supposed to say. I didn't want to apologize, exactly; I wanted her to make everything go away, to rescue me from myself.

"I'm not who you think I am," I told her quietly, hoping that I sounded the tiniest bit dignified.

"I know," she replied slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile. "You're worse. We went over this less than a minute ago. If I recall, you made off as if you were going to cry. It was suitably pitiable, but oddly satisfying."

"No, that's not—I mean, that isn't what I meant."

A beat of silence and then:

"Would you care to explain that appallingly cryptic comment?" she asked me sweetly, impatience rolling off her tongue like water off a window.

I didn't respond all at once, my eyes raking over her body as she let her hands rest loosely on her hips. I noted the faint tremble she was trying very hard to conceal behind her façade of indifference, of anger; it dawned on me that she was nervous.

But, really, anxiety on her part had no place in this conversation. She was the judgmental one, wasn't she? The one who was confident and bright and totally certain of her direction in life. It didn't make sense that she would be worried.

It didn't make sense that she would care.

"Sometimes," I said softly, "people hear what they want to. They purposely misinterpret things because it's _easier_ than facing the truth."

"And sometimes people misjudge _themselves_ because it's easier than facing the truth," she retorted sharply.

"I don't _get you_, Granger!" I burst out, clutching my head and then jamming my elbow down as I swore.

"Don't get what, Malfoy?" she asked coldly, watching me with an eyebrow raised.

"You talk in riddles. Nothing's ever as straightforward as it seems with you, is it? One minute I'm victimizing myself, the very next I deserve to die. Make up your mind!" I shouted.

She didn't say anything for several moments, her expression thoughtful as she regarded the wall behind my left shoulder.

"I can't," she finally answered plainly, meeting my gaze with a startling sort of intimacy.

"Wha-what do you mean?" I stammered, stunned into near-silence.

"I always savor my emotional breakdowns," she explained dreamily, seemingly without reason. "I lay in my bed, counting how many breaths it takes to fall asleep, and I feel human. I feel reality pressing down on me and I don't crave release. I wake up with my eyes glued shut from all the crying I didn't do and know I'm beautiful in all my imperfection."

She blinked suddenly, as if snapping to attention.

"That's why I can't make up my mind. Sometimes you're hateful, sometimes your misunderstood, but you're always, _always_ incomplete."

And then she shrugged, as if her words held little meaning: oh, but she couldn't know how fast I felt the world spinning beneath my feet.

I hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, yet everything had changed.

"Why, Granger," I laughed morosely, "are you calling me beautiful?"

That tension, that thick, heartbreakingly poignant tension that had been between us for as long as I could remember, had disappeared; she bit her lip as she suppressed a giggle, and in a second I saw everything as if I was far away, so far away, as if I was objectivity personified and her and I were nothing but specimens to be studied.

There I stood, clinging to my insecurities like a drowning man to a raft: compared to me, she was almost regal. We were surrounded by dusty bookshelves and ancient tomes full of spells a thousand times more powerful than either of us; I was staring at her, waiting for her. She was smiling somewhat secretively, and her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was flowing in curling chestnut tendrils all down her back.

I wanted to think that smile was meant for me.

"I…" she trailed off before clearing her throat. "I'm calling you flawed."

"What's the difference?" I joked, my weak attempt at humor hanging limpidly in the air between us.

"The difference is that…the difference is that…" she fumbled over her answer as I took a step forward; as I took a step towards her and away from my destiny.

"Even without your imperfections you'd be beautiful, Granger. Didn't I ever tell you that?" I was another step closer to her, even as she tried to back away, even as she tried to will herself to run.

"Didn't," I continued, my breath hitching in my throat as her fingers fluttered near my ribs, "you ever wonder?"

"Wonder about what?" she gasped, her eyelashes scraping the delicate skin beneath her brows as her eyes widened at my nearness.

"Didn't you ever wonder what would happen…"

"Yes?"

"…if I touched you?"

I reached out, the pad of my thumb caressing a circle over her bottom lip, and I felt her shudder, felt her tremble, all through my own body; my control was ebbing away, taking with it my common sense, my restraint, my sense of self. I was entrapping myself in chaos and it didn't matter; all I cared about was making sure she fell into disenchantment as fast as I did.

And then my mouth met hers in a tantalizing crush and I didn't care about anything at all.

OOO


	15. XV

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

She was like decadence and grandeur, piquancy and spiciness; she was a capricious fantasy, a whimsical impulse. Everything about her embrace, about her taste, about _her_, was overstated, overwhelming, and exaggerated. She was everything I'd ever wanted and everything I'd ever despised, all at once: she was superlative, unrivaled, and utterly unexceptional. I was terrified that if I let her go for a fraction of a second, she'd bolt and be gone forever; I was even more afraid that it would matter to me, even a tiny bit, if she did.

And so when I finally pulled away from her, my knuckles were white against the black of her robes: a stark contrast, a burst of consequence for the reality I was dreaming in vivid, bright, everlasting color.

"I…" My voice trailed off in the musty silence of the library, bookshelves and their paper-thin counterparts pressing in on me in a claustrophobic wave of realization.

_She was Hermione Granger_.

I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run, I wanted to scream; I wanted to sweep her up all over again and let myself forget, let myself drown in her kiss and the slightly tangy flavor of her mouth.

"I can't decide who I hate more," she whispered into my chest.

"What do you mean?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"I can't decide," she repeated, looking up into my eyes and appearing for all the world like a helpless little girl, "who I hate more."

She paused, her gaze wavering on a loose thread in my sweater.

"You or myself."

Then she quirked a smile, a sad smile, nothing more than a brief tilt of her lips, and pushed me away, her fingernail catching on that same loose thread. I watched her yank harder, watched that miniscule square centimeter of wool unravel, and I understood.

"No matter what you do right now, you'll regret me," I murmured softly, rubbing my left forearm and wincing.

"That's not what I'm talking about," she snapped abruptly, glaring through me with her brows furrowed in frustration.

"I don't…" I reached forward again, thoughtlessly, pointlessly.

"Get _off_!" she said through gritted teeth.

I felt my face alight with shame at her excruciatingly palpable rejection.

"A few more minutes and I would have," I retorted crudely.

"You really take the concept of effrontery to new heights," she remarked icily. "Or should I say new _lows_?"

"Well, Granger, you just seem to bring out the best in me."

"Don't even _tell me_ that was your _best_," she snorted, eyeing me with poorly concealed disdain; eyeing me like she hadn't just allowed me to hold her close and hold her gently.

"It'd be hard for you to judge, wouldn't it? It isn't like you've got much to compare me with," I returned harshly, clenching my fists and willing back my heartache.

"Oh! And what does your past entail, Malfoy? Parkinson? Since she's just _such_ a prize!" she seethed.

"At least she didn't _pant_ after me like that sorry ass Weasley did you!"

"Ron never _panted_ after me! Nor," she added forcefully, "did he ever grab me in broad daylight and attempt to…attempt to ravish me!"

"_Ravish you_?" I blinked in disbelief.

"Yes, well, it's not like I was entirely _willing_," she said defensively, her blatant lie cutting through my chest as effectively as a knife.

"Oh, of course not. I must have _forced_ you to mold yourself against me like that, I must have _forced_ you to press up and make that _delightful_ sound in the back of your throat, sort of like a--"

"_Stop it_," she hissed, embarrassment and fury lending her tone a quality of desperation.

"Stop what, Granger? I was merely recounting _your_ version of the past few minutes," I replied genially, sarcasm and cynicism blending together and creating a weapon I wasn't sure I was strong enough to wield: not against her.

"You'll be glad to know I've made up my mind," she said loudly, locking her eyes with mine.

"Oh? How fascinating," I drawled.

"Yes. You'll be glad to know that…you'll be glad to know that…" She stopped, biting back her words.

"My, my, look what I've reduced you to. You can't even speak in complete sentences anymore."

"You'll be glad to know that I hate myself far more than I hate you," she finally managed.

And then she turned away, and her shoulders slumped pathetically, and she laughed, or that's what I thought was happening since her body was shaking, and she was emitting pitiful choking noises that sounded eerily like sobs, but they couldn't be, she wouldn't cry, she was simply…

_Oh, no_.

"Granger, come on, don't..."

"Don't _what_, Malfoy? Don't _cry_?" she demanded, wiping a solitary tear away with an impatient flick of her wrist.

"Too late. Don't _lose control_?"

She snatched up some parchment off the table and tore it into pieces.

"Too late. Don't _regret you_?"

She regarded me steadily before sniffing.

"Too late for that, too."

She tried to stumble past me and leave, but I grabbed her elbow, shoving her backwards.

"Tell me you still hate me. _Tell me_."

She didn't reply for a moment.

"People say that there's a thin line between love and hate," she began shakily, while optimism made me reckless and I pulled her by her arm ever closer to me. "They say that all passion's the same, even if it's negative. That switching from one to the other is an eventual certainty."

"And?" I prompted her to continue, not taking the risk of breathing.

"I think those people are liars."

Her comment hung between us, bleeding us both dry with its stark honesty and its illogical betrayal.

"How fitting we share that sentiment," I ground out, refusing to let her see me tremble; she couldn't know I was dying inside, so inexplicably and so slowly it was barely noticeable.

She moved to leave again; I didn't try to stop her.

And when I happened to catch sight of the torn-up paper on the ground, I saw that seemingly long-ago entreaty of selfishness.

I thought it was prophetic that the word _real_ was ripped right down the center.

OOO


	16. XVI

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I have no excuses. I'm lame. I'm sorry. I'll try harder at the updating thing.

OOO

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_She was gazing at me intently, and suddenly the air was crackling with an electricity that I wanted to call organic, but couldn't, because I didn't even know what that would mean, in the grand scheme of things, and since she had taken my silence as acquiescence, she was leaning closer, so close, and her breath was warm across my mouth, and sweet, and I remembered that she'd eaten a Sugar Quill on the way out of Charms, and then, very abruptly, I remembered nothing at all. _

OOO

"Draco…"

Her voice trailed off as she regared my stony profile.

"What do you want, Parkinson? Personally delivering my invitation to a Revel, are you?" I asked cruelly, refusing to meet her searching gaze, refusing to look into the pale blue eyes I'd been so certain, at one point, would be my everything.

"I miss you," she blurted out, and I almost winced at the hint of doubt that had crept into her pronouncement.

"Can't make up your mind about that, either?" I returned, my pulse hammering: like a downcast destiny, I reveled in the memory of our first kiss.

"I shouldn't have been so…I was too judgmental, Draco, and I'm sorry, but I can't help but _miss_ you."

She said this in a rush, as if she couldn't dispel her words any faster, as if they could just flow out like water and make the past, and our probable futures, disappear.

_There's something tantalizing in her delusion_, I though bitterly, poetically: she was talking, her voice garbled and weedy.

"Draco, _I_ was in the wrong before, I was so wrong, can't you just believe me?" she pleaded.

_A contradiction_.

"I was so harsh, and I didn't mean it, not really, and when you just threw it back in my face after I told you I loved you—which I _meant_—I lost control, I couldn't help it," she went on.

_A lie_.

"Please, Draco, can't we go back to how we were before? All those nights out on the pitch, all those kisses, all that trust. _Please_," she continued begging.

_A wooden casket for her dishonesty, _I thought hazily.

"Draco, say something," she whispered.

_Tonight's the night_: I looked up, straight into deception personified.

"Please," she whimpered.

_I'll start the fire_: I took a step forward, towards her.

"I still love you, Draco," she murmured seductively.

_I can't wait for it to go up_: I heard her breath hitch in her throat as the space between us grew smaller, ever smaller.

_For that wooden casket to go up in flames_: My lips were a fraction of an inch away from hers'.

"I hate you, Pansy," I said into her open, waiting mouth.

_I'll watch it burn down to ashes_: I shoved her away, my palms grazing her shoulders.

_Because ashes always turn to dust_, I thought with some satisfaction.

She called my name as I walked away; I ignored her, but only because I was certain I was still dreaming. The concept of reality seemed too impossible, too distant, too _complex_ just then, and I had the fleeting thought that maybe my actions wouldn't have consequences. That maybe nothing I said or did would have the kind of melodramatic repercussions I tried so hard to avoid.

That maybe I was getting a brief reprieve from Life-with-a-capital-'L' and should cherish my momentary indifference.

I passed a gilded mirror in the hallway and stopped.

I recalled my dismal reflection during Christmas, in the rundown house I'd been branded in both figuratively and literally: a coward and a minion, with the bad posture, the weak chin, and the Mark to prove it.

Presently, though, I stared at the boy I saw in the glass, the boy with the jaded eyes and the bleak countenance; I stared, and I felt a resurgence of the long-lost pride I'd shed the instant I'd let the Dark Lord and his slimy fingers make my shiver. I stared, and I took in the clenched jaw and thin lips, the pale skin and flared nostrils.

I stared, and tried my hardest to make an objective observation: no one could call me happy, but no one could call me weak, either. I wasn't jubilant, but nor was I pathetic.

Without warning, I remembered kissing Granger, remembered the elation, the confusion, the unspeakable disappointment.

I remembered the feel of her lips, the taste of her mouth; I remembered the tremors in her voice, the inflections of anger and bewilderment and _doubt_ that had permeated it.

I remembered, and I smiled.

OOO

She was sitting there, the sleeves of her sweater pulled down over her wrists. I watched from afar as her hair, thick and bushy and gloriously long, was pulled, strand by strand, into the night breeze. I leaned into the castle wall, the weatherworn stone smooth to the touch, and raised an eyebrow as she got up from the grass and traipsed to the edge of the lake.

I could imagine the expression of weary bliss etched onto her face, imagine the cold trickle of water down her wrists as her fingers delved into the damp earth.

"Shouldn't you be studying for something, Granger?"

She didn't bother glancing up.

"I don't do anything productive when you're around, Malfoy." she shot back tiredly, drawing her knees up towards her chest.

"Oh, that's right. When I'm around, it's just all one big regret, right?" I sneered.

She didn't reply.

"Why do you come out here, Granger?"

A beat of silence, and then:

"When I was little, we lived in the city. Noise and people everywhere, couldn't look out a window without seeing a stoplight or a billboard. My parents would sometimes, on weekends especially, clear their schedules and take me to the countryside, where everything was big and open and fresh and clean."

She paused.

"I adored it there, especially during the winter, when you could see for miles with the trees all bare and the air so crisp."

She swallowed convulsively.

"My parents always used to argue about how late we should stay, my mother opting to go home early and rest up. But my father insisted we stay until it got dark, when the stars would come out."

She let out a breathy laugh.

"It was so beautiful. So stunningly, refreshingly beautiful. The stars, that is."

She shook her head.

"But once, I remember, it was cloudy, and my mother thought she'd finally won the argument, that there was no reasonable explanation for staying late when no one could even _see_ the stars. But you know what my father said?"

Suddenly, she was looking up at me, her eyes just a touch too bright and her voice just a touch too shaky.

"He said, and I'll always remember this, always, he said, 'Who cares if we can't see them? We know they're there. And that's all that matters.' It was so simple to him."

She turned towards the water again.

"When you kissed me the other day, you made me forget all my inhibitions, all my morals, all my promises. You made me feel as if dreams were infinite, as if anything could come true, anything wonderful, that is. It was sensational, and it was perfect, but it was brief."

She stood up.

"I thought of what my father said after you kissed me. I had to remind myself that even though I couldn't see him, the boy I'd hated for six years was still there."

"And?" My throat was dry.

She smiled wryly.

"It was much harder than it should have been."

She was gone before I had the chance to blink, before I had the chance to reply.

Before I had the chance to stop her.

OOO


	17. XVII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy _

OOO

**Author's Note**: Well. Almost six months have gone by since I've updated this story. Ironically enough, however, I've had it finished in its entirety since early January. I just never got around to typing it up. For all of you who were reading this before I took a hiatus from fanfiction and focused on college, I apologize for neglecting you. It was never my intention to leave anything unfinished, I just lost track of how much time had really gone by. And so on with the final chapters. I can't put them all up right now, but hopefully I'll manage one a day.

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_Some things are meant to be bittersweet, I think. I want to hold on as tight as I can, never want to let go, hang the consequences; but then I remember that I have no claim, no right to be superciliously selfish. _

I stopped writing and looked out the window towards the lake. My heart had settled somewhere beneath my navel and I could pinpoint the cause.

_She wasn't ever mine and never will be._

I wrote the words, thought the words, forced myself to digest them: but I didn't believe them.

_It's not my place to snatch her up, to press closer and closer until she can't think straight enough to deny me. It's not my place to flirt outrageously, to hold complete conversations using just the tilt of my head, the curve of my lips; it's not my place to take advantage of hormones, to confuse sex with love._

Love was such a nauseatingly overrated concept.

_It's not my place. But oh, how I want it to be._

And there it was. I wanted her. I wanted her just as much as I'd wanted the Mark, just as much as I'd wanted Pansy.

_I want her skin against mine, pushing me deeper against a mattress. I want her face buried into my shoulder, her breath ragged and moist. I want her hands on me, anywhere and everywhere. I want my name to leave her mouth a desperate caress, want her world to spiral into chaos with every flick of my tongue, every thrust of my hips. _

My hands were shaking, my face was flushed. Why was I torturing myself?

_Bravery takes on new meaning when I realize how close I've come to self-destruction: Inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Don't get faint. It's a mantra, my mantra, being drummed into my head by too much experience: unwanted, unnecessary, unwelcome experience._

Something was sliding into place inside me; something was beginning to make sense, but my senses were too foggy, too dull, to comprehend it.

_Experience that branded me a cynic, robbed me of my optimism. _

I blinked at my parchment.

_Experience she shouldn't have, but invariably will._

My quill fell onto the table. I sat utterly, perfectly still, my eyes open, unblinking, unseeing.

_So why shouldn't I be the one to give it to her?_

My fingers itched to put it on paper; I couldn't bring myself to. Wouldn't that make it true? Wouldn't that make me want it to be true?

"Draco."

Her voice, soft and commanding, startled me into consciousness.

"What do you want?" I snapped, immediately regretting my harsh tone when her concerned expression morphed into stony indifference.

"You looked pensive enough to hurl yourself out the window. I was merely going to make an effort to dissuade you from that particular course of action," she bit out.

"Clearly you were misguided," I snorted, wondering all the while why I was being so contrary, so petty.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. It's just that there would have been such a mess; I didn't want to trouble Filch with it," she informed me icily.

"Ever so thoughtful of you _Hermione_," I said pointedly, cruelly; she would never have guessed what it cost me to utter her name, to lace those precious syllables with a rancor I wasn't even close to feeling.

But apparently I hadn't done a very good job of being derisive and condescending, because she was regarding me curiously, a finely arched eyebrow raised, her lips pursed in wonderment.

And I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that I'd made a mistake.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"Doing what?" I asked mildly, hoping she couldn't see me swallow painfully.

"You know," she answered simply, meeting my wild gaze with a self-assuredness I found supremely debilitating.

"I was thinking about what you said last night," I finally responded, glaring at my hands.

"Oh," she said, then cleared her throat. "And?"

"I understand what you mean," I replied distantly.

"What?"

"I understand. It's hard, I think, to want to hate someone. Harder, probably, than wanting to love them."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No. Both can be undeserved, can't they? You can hate someone for no reason, just as easily as you can love someone for no reason. It's the littlest things that can trigger the biggest emotions."

"Either way, you can't force it."

She was quiet. "No, I don't suppose you can. It's a pity."

"Why's that?"

"If it was as easy as that, just looking at someone and deciding whether or not to like them, the world would be a much more peaceful place, don't you think?"

"Sometimes first impressions can be deceiving, though," I argued. "If you made determined your feelings like that they couldn't possibly be accurate."

"No, I don't think they could. How ironic," she commented dryly.

"Eleven year olds make mistakes, Hermione," I burst out, unable to contain myself.

"That doesn't render them incapable of rectifying aforementioned mistakes," she countered coldly.

"What do you think I'm doing, if not trying to rectify it?" I demanded.

She didn't say anything.

I let my eyelids drift shut for a split-second, savoring the microscopic privacy: but in that snatch of loneliness, in that brief glimpse of blissful vacuity, my thoughts and my feelings and my desires all clicked, connected on a level I couldn't comprehend.

_A grimace of feigned distaste: _I licked my lips, for they'd suddenly gone dry.

"Hermione," I began quietly.

_Lowered lashes mask our intimacy:_ I was going to stutter, stammer, and stumble my way through her preconceived notions.

"I think I messed up," I continued blithely.

_Something's stirring: _A step forward, in the right direction, was all I needed.

"I think I've been messing up for awhile," I confessed.

_Something's making tonight:_ Our eyes were locked in a deadly embrace.

"When I kissed you…" I let myself trail off.

_Come on, come on, come on:_ We were close enough to touch, close enough to share a breath.

"All I could think about afterwards…"

_Sway, so sway: _My fingertips trailed down the line of her jaw.

"Was doing it again," I finished softly.

_You know you taste so good: _I pulled her face up to mine, felt her tremble against me.

_Relax, relax: _I could pinpoint the exact moment she was swept away, could hear her heartbeat as surely as she could hear mine.

_We give it all: _I push her against the edge of the table, force her back down onto the smooth, even surface.

_We fade away: _By the time I heard his footsteps, by the time I understood that she hadn't been the one to gasp, it was too late.

I was too far gone to notice, too far gone to worry.

Too far gone to realize that Harry Potter was standing next to us, watching.

Too far gone to care.

OOO


	18. XVIII

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This is an alarmingly short installment, but there are only two chapters left anyways, so I hope it's not too big of a deal. I'm just going to say now that the ending for this will be bittersweet: bitter if you're a romantic, sweet if you're a stickler for character depth. If you're a fan of both, you'll be torn between the two, which I invariably was when I wrote it. The weekend's here, so hopefully I can get those chapters up by Monday.

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

It happened in a blur: a wondrously corrupt, pathetically fitting blur. The hero and the heroine, united once more under appalling circumstances, circumstances that left me, the villain, the bully, the two-faced antagonist, in a head-on collision of bitterness and agony. A wreck of torrentially resplendent emotions was all that would be left by the time they were gone: mangled beyond repair, beyond recognition, my heart would be trampled by her denial and his loyalty; by her apathy and his scorn.

She pushed me away with a startled shriek, a breathless shriek, her eyes catching mine briefly before flying towards Potter's, her impassioned plea of innocence pounding through my eardrums and reverberating through my skull. Everything was happening all at once, it seemed, Potter's virulent disbelief, and shock, and outrage, contorting into her betrayal, her defiance; I couldn't tell them apart, couldn't differentiate between my anger and my anguish.

I couldn't get my mouth to open, couldn't force words out to make it all better, to make Potter go away, to make Hermione stay. I couldn't get my lips to quirk into a triumphant smile when I looked up and saw my pasty white reflection in the glint off of Potter's glasses. I couldn't manage to shake my head, or defend myself when he sent a punch to my midsection. I couldn't hold back my grunt of pain, couldn't stop myself from dropping to my knees.

All I could do, all I could think to do, was study her: and everything made sense, in a brilliant burst of clarity. She was watching me, biting her lip, her eyes brimming with remorse, regret, and an unspoken apology. She was saying something quickly and quietly to Potter, her hands moving swiftly as she gesticulated; I knew she was making her excuses, knew she was using that famous intellect to concoct a plausible reason she had been caught in a compromising position with her nemesis.

But I couldn't even blame her.

My whole life had been leading up to this moment, this second of tragedy. I couldn't imagine anything less of a disaster, less of a letdown; there was nothing anticlimactic about the wrenching of my gut, the roaring of my blood.

Her face, with a thousand different smiles and a thousand different frowns, flitted through my mind: she was laughing at one of Weasley's jokes, her hands clasped delightedly in front of her; she was being hurled backwards by a hex meant for Potter, her gasp of dismayed astonishment lost amidst Potter's shout; she was pale and thin, grotesquely so, in the hospital wing; she was tired and drawn, trying to avoid me in the library; she was biting down on her lips, trying not scream, surrounded by men my father called friends, men my friends called Father.

She was snorting in disdain when she listened to me explain away my Mark; she was smiling tremulously, weakly, before I'd kissed her; she was trying so, so hard to stay strong and ignore me, that night by the lake.

Abruptly, I brought myself back to the present, only to realize barely a minute had passed.

Abruptly, I jerked myself out of my stupor, only to realize that she'd stopped speaking.

"_Isn't that right, _Malfoy?" she said fiercely, clearly repeating herself.

I nodded once, my mouth tightening of its own accord, and stepped around them.

"Whatever you say, Hermione," I shrugged, belittling my volatile temper with my careless show of nonchalance.

And then I fled as quickly as I could without running, as quietly as I could without treading lightly.

I hadn't bothered to snatch up my makeshift journal.

I hadn't bothered to explain myself.

I hadn't bothered to tell her the one thing that might have changed her mind, the one thing that might have made her stop clinging to Potter and start clinging to me. The one thing that would have made her lips part with surprise, confusion, and eventual understanding.

I hadn't bothered to say those five words of magnificent magnitude out loud: _I will always hate you_.

OOO


	19. XIX

**Stronger**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I hated that ending so much I couldn't leave it up. I'm sorry. I wrote that in a pathetic attempt to make this a happily-ever-after type of story. But quite frankly, that doesn't really work for me. The way I'd written the entire piece leading up to the ending was too intensely serious for that kind of conclusion. So, sorry to the romantics reading this, but I have to go with my instincts and depress you all. I hope, honestly, that after you read this revised ending you'll understand what I mean when I said the other one didn't work. It was almost unreal how hard it was for me to even write this, but Draco would have been the epitome of a shallow, two-dimensional character had I left it like it was. That last chapter I put up was…flat, to say the least. It made me unhappy that I couldn't write something with more inherent emotion, even if the wording and everything seemed alright. I hated it. Not going to lie. So…I apologize for doing what I have to do and ending this the right way. I think it might help to reread the rest of the story and then read this chapter, though. It'll make more sense and not seem so morbidly pointless. Anyways. I'm done. Thanks for reading.

OOO

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

_**Two Years Later**_

Bleached white walls were glowing with an eerie green light that had nothing to do with death and everything to do with destruction. There were two of us, two faceless villains whose names were inconsequential, whose wands and temperaments and amorality were all that mattered. Father and son, we were on a mission.

We were after someone in particular, someone whose defiance and bravery were acclaimed by polite society, someone who lived her life based on the dictums of senseless niceties, based on the pain-is-pleasure masochism of straight-laced ethics. Someone whose voice haunted my dreams and whose shadow never left my side. Someone it had been alarmingly and surprisingly easy to ignore, someone who I hadn't spoken a single word to in two years.

I'd been stunned when I discovered that forgetting her was impossible. I was resigned to my fate: a lifetime of nonexistence. I couldn't touch her, couldn't have her; I couldn't even speak to her. But we'd made our choices, respectively, even if we'd never acknowledged them out loud.

A few stolen, vacillating kisses didn't constitute a relationship. I reasoned, months later, that I hadn't given anything up. She was too in love with goodness to be in love with me. She wouldn't debase herself, wouldn't sully her clear conscience, by consorting with me; whatever had happened between us, whatever had robbed us of our sanity and brought us together briefly, oh, so briefly, wasn't worth it, in the end. There was no guarantee we could make each other happy. No assurance that we could overcome our differences and make us-as-an-entity work.

And until I saw her crouched behind an upturned sofa, hiding with her wand pointed out, a spell on the tip of her tongue and her eyes darting every which way, I truly believed I'd been right to walk away from her.

I stared at her, at the smooth porcelain of her skin, at the graceful arch of her neck. I stared at her, and I knew that we'd both been wrong.

I'd run away from everything, I realized. Run away from Pansy, run away from the Dark Lord. I'd run away from Dark Revels, from men named Timothy Davison. I'd run away from Weasley, from unsuspecting first years. I'd sealed my misery by running from her. But what had finally damned me, what had really cemented my unhappiness, was running from myself. I'd thought to escape my own weakness, to give up before I failed. I'd thought that I'd made a good decision, a solid decision, a mature decision.

I'd thought wrong.

But reality caught up with me just then, and I felt a hand at my elbow, a shout in my ear.

"Draco! What are you staring at? You're wasting time. She's not here, let's check next door."

And then he made his way to the splinters of the wooden door we'd blasted open mere minutes before. I stayed rooted to the spot, but not out of indecision. No, I couldn't move because she'd finally looked at me.

As soon as my father had said my name, her entire body had snapped to attention. When she'd glanced up, her eyes meeting mine with a clash of fire and ice, I'd known with absolute certainty that this was my only chance to rectify my mistake.

But there was a man standing a few feet away who wanted her dead, and if I didn't join him soon he'd discover her, and then kill her, and I'd be helpless to stop him, unable to save her.

The irony was exquisite: the one time, the only time, I didn't want to flee, didn't want to run away, was the one time, the only time, I absolutely had to. If I mustered up every last ounce of willpower and managed to turn away, I'd never see her again. I'd never get to look into her eyes and see passion, humor, intelligence, _life_. I'd never get to run my hands down her back, over the curve of her waist, the flare of hips. I'd never get to whisper her name into her hair, breathe in her scent as she pressed up against me.

"_What are you really trying to hide, Malfoy?"_ she'd asked me once.

"_If I say it out loud it makes it real, Granger,"_ I'd replied.

Nothing could get more real than that moment, though. My father was walking towards me, saying something admonitory, something meant to put me in my place as the spoiled underling, something meant to make me click my heels together and rush after him. He didn't know that I was staring into perfection personified, he didn't know that I was finally ready to make it real.

It was funny, really, how prepared I was to make The Right Choice, to turn around and walk away and be noble, keep her hiding place a secret and save her life. But something about the way I saw her deflate with relief, the way her posture slackened when she realized I was going to be predictably heroic, pathetically and intermittently stoic, forced me to remember all the other times in my life I'd been a thoughtless, careless, weakly submissive fatalist.

I remembered how many times I'd been ashamed of my behavior, how many times I'd avoided a casual glance in the mirror just so I wouldn't have to flinch at the sight of my own face; I remembered feeling inferior next to her one of those nights at the lake, remembered how looking down into her eyes always felt like a sprint to the top of a mountain, so draining was the experience; I remembered how I hadn't been bothered by the fact that I was morally bankrupt, no, not at all, not until she'd pointed it out to me and made it sound _bad_.

I remembered that awful, _awful_ day in the library, the last time I'd really, really seen her; I remembered how I'd been silenced by shock, by pain, by disbelief and anger and a hundred other unidentifiable emotions. I remembered being demoralized, being torn apart by my self-incriminating revulsion, by my internal taunting that she'd chosen them over me; I remembered despising her, remembered the simultaneous beauty and regret of the moment of recognition: I'd hated her from the start, hated her so much I'd begun to wonder if that wasn't my true purpose in life, just to abhor her and deny her any semblance of peace or happiness; I'd begun to wonder if maybe I hadn't imagined my unwavering attraction to her and her rosy red lips, just so I could confuse her and get my petty revenge.

I remembered pretending, afterwards, that I was fine, just fine, that I didn't sleepwalk through the day, that I didn't spend my nights writing page after page of things I wanted to say to her, things I wanted to say to everyone when they asked me what was wrong; page after page of how everything wasn't fine, just fine, how everything was really, truly meaningless.

And then, when I was done, when my fingers were cramped around the pen and the first tendrils of dispassionately glorious sunlight were creeping across the twilit sky, I would find a fireplace and toss those pages into the flames, one by one, thinking all the while that this must be what it's like to be strong, to relish my emotional conflict, to hold on to the hysterical hurt like it was all I had left.

And really, it was.

A memory, fading and tenuous, flitted through my mind:

"_Why do you come down here?" Her voice was cautious, curious: an unwelcome disruption. _

_I stared out across the glassy surface of the lake, a pebble weighing heavily in my hand, just waiting to be thrown; it was the middle of the night and I was cloaking myself in depravity. Masking my tumultuous morality, my ethical hesitancy, making sure she couldn't see my indecision, couldn't hazard a guess at the reason for my moodiness._

"_Because I like to," I snapped, tossing a spiteful glare over my shoulder just in time to see her flinch: I determined in that instant that she wouldn't ever know how my heart skipped a beat when she shuddered, how my palms got sweaty and my throat went dry._

"_Is it nice, then? To do what you like?" she asked mildly, secreting the edge to inquiry._

"_It's even nicer to have other people do what I like," I replied tightly._

I wasn't going to walk away again—I wasn't going to save her.

I was going to save myself. I was going to be strong for myself, not for her, not for my father, or Pansy, or the Dark Lord. I was going to prove, once and for all, that I could be the hypocrite, the antagonist, the Bad Guy: and still be happy. Still be proud. Still be strong.

"Thank you," I said, taking a step towards her. Her eyes were round with confusion, with surprise, with well-concealed fear.

"For what?" she asked me softly, her eyebrows drawn together.

"For making me stronger. For making me realize I needed to be. For…showing me how," I answered simply; my mind screamed at her to turn, to run, to put her wand up and finish me off.

But she didn't turn, and she didn't run, and she didn't try to fight me. What she did, instead, was stare at me with dawning comprehension, with dawning horror.

"_Avada kedavra_," I said, summoning all the hatred I possessed, all the anger and the insecurity and the broken promises.

"I love you," I whispered into the silence, still staring into her empty, empty eyes.

"I always did," I continued, my hand dropping to my side, my wand clattering to the dusty floor.

"I always will."

**THE END**


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